PERFECTION of my God!—
With hands on the same rod,
With robes that interfold,
One weft together rolled;
With two wings of one Dove
Stretched the royal heads above—
God severs from His Son,
That what is not be won;
Immortal, mortal grow,
God entering manhood know
What was not and shall be
Of cogent Deity.

Perfection of my soul!—
How shall I reach my goal,
Unless I leave His Face,
Who is my dwelling-place,
Unless in exile do
His will a short while through,
To the time’s sharpest rim:
Unless, deprived of Him,
I may achieve Him, lie
His victim, sigh on sigh,
Bearing consummate pain,
Supremely to attain?