As some weak bird, tossed homeward by the gale,
Is safely nested in the rocky scar
That cleaves the curving beach, but hears afar
The ocean writhing at the tempest’s flail,

So thou, my soul, hast reached the refuge hill
That Pilate made a pleasance for his jest,
And in Christ’s rose-red side hast found a rest,
Borne half by passion, yet by conscious will.

O Lord, whose spirit waged so hard a fight,
Scorn not the tainted thing beside thy heart
As too unfit to feel that sacred glow;

But lest I ere forget how much I owe,
Let not the vision utterly depart
Of frenzied storm and all-engulfing night.