Page:Poems Shipton.djvu/120

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Lamb of God, and Man of Sorrow,
 Shed Thy Holy Spirit down;
For the night must have its morrow,
 And the thorns are still a crown.
   If reserved for only Thine,
   Let the thorny crown be mine.

Lo, I take it! On my weakness
 Look Thou, Lord, in pity down;
Let me learn Thy holy meekness,
 Fit me here to wear the crown.
   Thou wilt leave me not forlorn,
   Myrtles shall supplant the thorn.

When it presses me the sorest,
 When the bitter cup I sip,
Let me feel the crown Thou worest
 Gives the sweetest fellowship:
   Diademed with rubies rare,
   Precious blood-drops sparkling there.

Teach me, Lord, the hands that wove it
 Wove it not without Thy will;
Bless it, Lord, and I shall love it:
 Through the thorns I see Thee still.
   Thou in grief art ever nigh;
   I will wear it patiently.