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Marvel of Marvels

by
 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!

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