Christina Georgina Rossetti

Marvel Of Marvels

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 belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould, Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unrolled, 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 belovèd, since your funeral bell was tolled: Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!