| 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. |