Classic Poem

Thou art the altar's holy candle flame
Unto God's glory lifted high,
A frail moth of the Summer dusk am I —
Eager within thy burning heart to die;
Unto God's glory lifted high
Thou art the altar's holy candle flame.

Lit by the hand of purest acolyte,
Submissive, thine to waste away,
Turning from scented snares I but obey
My single need to perish in thy ray;
Submissive, thine to waste away,
Lit by the hand of purest acolyte.

Thou art the blest beam in an evil world,
Such worship heaven will just requite:
Mine the brief bliss of one immortal flight —
Ecstatic martyr to thy sacred light;
Such worship heaven will just requite!
Thou art the blest beam in an evil world.