Conference Between Christ, the Saints, and the Soul
(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)
I am pale with sick desire,For my heart is far awayFrom this world’s fitful fireAnd this world’s waning day;In a dream it overleapsA world of tedious illsTo where the sunshine sleepsOn th’ everlasting hills.Say the Saints—There Angels ease usGlorified and white. 10They say—We rest in Jesus,Where is not day nor night.
My Soul saith—I have soughtFor a home that is not gained,I have spent yet nothing bought,Have laboured but not attained;My pride strove to rise and grow,And hath but dwindled down;My love sought love, and lo!Hath not attained its crown. 20Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us,None languish nor recede.They say—We love our Jesus,And He loves us indeed.
I cannot rise above,I cannot rest beneath,I cannot find out Love,Nor escape from Death;Dear hopes and joys gone byStill mock me with a name; 30My best belovèd dieAnd I cannot die with them.Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us,Where our rest is glorious.They say—We live in Jesus,Who once dièd for us.
Oh, my Soul, she beats her wingsAnd pants to fly awayUp to immortal ThingsIn the Heavenly day: 40Yet she flags and almost faints;Can such be meant for me?Come and see—say the Saints.Saith Jesus—Come and see.Say the Saints—His Pleasures please usBefore God and the Lamb.Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus—Be with Me where I am.