When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
when an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
the vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by kedron stream;
we will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
that it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.