Classic Poem

It is the greatness of Thy love, dear Lord, that we would celebrate
With sevenfold powers.
Our love at best is cold and poor, at best unseemly for Thy state,
This best of ours.
Creatures that die, we yet are such as Thine own hands deigned to create:
We frail as flowers,
We bitter bondslaves ransomed at a price incomparably great
To grace Heaven's bowers.

Thou callest: “Come at once”—and still Thou callest us: “Come late, tho' late”—
(The moments fly)—
“Come, every one that thirsteth, come”—“Come prove
Me, knocking at My gate”—
(Some souls draw nigh!)—
“Come thou who waiting seekest Me”—“Come thou for whom I seek and wait”—
(Why will we die?)—
“Come and repent: come and amend: come joy the joys unsatiate”—
—(Christ passeth by . . .)—
Lord, pass not by—I come—and I—and I.