The sentence, come ye blessed to my tent.
The spear that pierc'd his side, the writing pen,
Christ's blood the ink, red ink for prince's name,
The vailes great breach, the miracles for men,
The sight is show of them that long dead came
From their old graves, restored to living fame.
And that last, signet passing all the rest,
Our souls discharg'd by _consummatum est_.
Here endless joy is their perpetual cheer
Their exercise, sweet songs of many parts.
Angels their choir, whose symphony to hear
Is able to provoke conceiving hearts
To misconceive of all enticing art
The ditty praise, the subject is the Lord,
That times their gladsome spirit to this accord.

TH. STOKER.

* * * * *


DEATH.


Is't not God's deed whatever thing is done
In heaven and earth? Did not he all create
To die again? all ends that were begun;
Their times in his eternal books of fate
Are written sure, and have their certain date,
Who then can strive with strong necessity,