  YE who would follow Me with song, My heavenly bodyguard, My throng Of happy throats, with voices free As birds in deep-wood secrecy; Ye who would be the core of Heaven round Me, And therefore songsters of felicity Beyond all ranges of the singing That myriad voices of the Blessed are flinging In skylark madness to Me distantly; My Virgins, My delight and neighbourhood, The white flowers of My Precious Blood, Through whom it rises up and yields Fragrance to Me of lily-fields; How shall ye keep the whiteness of your vow? My Virgins, My white Brides, I whisper how: Of Virgin flesh, a Virgin God, Incarnate among men I trod; And when as Bread they feed on Me Needs must that Bread be of Virginity. Feed at My altar, My white Doves, Feed on the Bread My Mother loves! |
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