Conference Between Christ, The Saints, And The Soul

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)     I am pale with sick desire,         For my heart is far away     From this world's fitful fire         And this world's waning day;     In a dream it overleaps         A world of tedious ills     To where the sunshine sleeps         On th' everlasting hills.         Say the Saints - There Angels ease us         Glorified and white.         They say - We rest in Jesus,         Where is not day nor night.     My Soul saith - I have sought         For a home that is not gained,     I have spent yet nothing bought,         Have laboured but not attained;     My pride strove to rise and grow,         And hath but dwindled down;     My love sought love, and lo!         Hath not attained its crown.         Say the Saints - Fresh Souls increase us,         None languish nor recede.         They say - We love our Jesus,         And He loves us indeed.     I cannot rise above,         I cannot rest beneath,     I cannot find out Love,         Nor escape from Death;     Dear hopes and joys gone by         Still mock me with a name;     My best belovd die         And I cannot die with them.         Say the Saints - No deaths decrease us,         Where our rest is glorious.         They say - We live in Jesus,         Who once did for us.     Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings         And pants to fly away     Up to immortal Things         In the Heavenly day:     Yet she flags and almost faints;         Can such be meant for me?     Come and see - say the Saints.         Saith Jesus - Come and see.         Say the Saints - His Pleasures please us         Before God and the Lamb.         Come and taste My Sweets - saith Jesus -         Be with Me where I am.