MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall behold 
With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; 
Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, 
Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, 
Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. 
O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, 
Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd, 
See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold 
Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-- 
The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold! 

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd: 
Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold! 

Added: Apr 28 2005 | Viewed: 626 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Christina Rossetti
Poem: Marvel of Marvels

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