204
poems.
But; lo! can thought conceive, can language tell,The glory beaming mid that wondering host?An angel seemed amid their ranks to glide.Speechless they gazed, for mingled love and aweHad settled on their souls, as heavenly guests.From mouthto mouth the scanty portion spread,Miraculously multiplied, nor ceasedTill all were fed; when of the fragments left,Twelve basketsful were gathered.
Ye might wellGaze on that miracle of wondrous might,Ye unbelieving hearts, while from your lipsThe exulting shout went up, proclaiming himThe Prophet-King, the Shiloh, long foretoldBy ancient seers.
Jesus, "Thou Bread of life!"With food eternal feed our famished souls;Nor let our footsteps faint, nor faith grow dim,Till upon Zion's hill with thee we stand.
