O woman, now thy golden day's at morn!
Dawn leaps and laughs upon the waiting hills,
And sings thy freedom; for thy sorrow fills
The cup at last; and all that thou hast borne
Pleads thy release!... Lord Christ, and crowned with thorn,
Lay bare each sacred agony that spills
Blood of the crucified pure hearts and wills,
Brows, hands, and feet, the centuries have torn!
This be the song that you have taught me sing,
The strain you on my ready harp confer.
Love seeks, as sought each Christ-adoring king,
But to bow down... Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,
Are offered, not the body to possess,
Neither command, but reverently to bless.