This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness

He Touch'd The Tender Stops Of Various Quills, With Eager Thought Warbling His Doric Lay.

Ask For This Great Deliverer Now, And Find Him Eyeless In Gaza At The Mill With Slaves.

Come, Pensive Nun, Devout And Pure, Sober Steadfast, And Demure, All In A Robe Of Darkest Grain, Flowing With Majestic Train.

Luck Is The Residue Of Design.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light. There Let The Pealing Organ Blow, To The Full-voiced Choir Below, In Service High, And Anthems Clear As May, With Sweetness, Through Mine Ear Dissolve Me Into Ecstasies, And Bring All Heaven Before Mine Eyes.