Conference between Christ, the Saints, and the Soul
I am pale with sick desire, For my heart is far away From this world’s fitful fire And this world's waning day; In a dream it overleaps A world of tedious ills To where the sunshine sleeps On th’ everlasting hills. Say the Saints – There Angels ease us Glorified and white. They say – We rest in Jesus, Where is not day nor night. My Soul saith – I have sought For 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. Say 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 by Still mock me with a name; My best beloved die And 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 died for us. Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings And pants to fly away Up to immortal Things In the Heavenly day: Yet 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 us Before God and the Lamb. Come and taste My Sweets – saith Jesus – Be with Me where I am. Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894
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