The Secret Splendour

Each thought is gliding like a stone.

The flesh is a burden to the bone,

The bone an aching goad within

 Till I have paid with wounded sin

For the wounds of that nailed Purity.

"Why hast Thou, God, forsaken me?"

 All songs are routed from man's face

By that divine distorted word

Bringing into each perfumed place

The earth-crossed' life of Heaven's Lord.

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