Marvel of Marvels

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!