Marvel of Marvels
1830-1894
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 beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould,
Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd,
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 beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd:
Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
DayPoems Poem No. 733
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/733.html">Marvel of Marvels by Christina Georgina Rossetti</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor
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