96 - Mansur -
O POOR , condemned, divine, and tortured thing!
Who is it gave the cup and bade thee drink?
Who is it gave the thought and bade thee think?
Have I not seen the heaven of heavens descend?
Have I not heard the whirlwind thundering?
Have I not felt the Shape draw near, and bend
Toward me? It is He, the Lord, the King,
The Master, — aye the Master and the Friend.
Slayer, I hail Thee with my dying breath,
Victor, I yield the fortress of my heart;
The doors fly open, and the poor lips part
Once more, and then no more, world without end.
The cup is poison, and the thought is death;
And He that gives them, is He not the Friend?
Who is it gave the cup and bade thee drink?
Who is it gave the thought and bade thee think?
Have I not seen the heaven of heavens descend?
Have I not heard the whirlwind thundering?
Have I not felt the Shape draw near, and bend
Toward me? It is He, the Lord, the King,
The Master, — aye the Master and the Friend.
Slayer, I hail Thee with my dying breath,
Victor, I yield the fortress of my heart;
The doors fly open, and the poor lips part
Once more, and then no more, world without end.
The cup is poison, and the thought is death;
And He that gives them, is He not the Friend?
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