A BLAMELESS fancy it perchance might be
Which first with glory's radiant halo crown'd Thee;
Art's reverent homage, eager all should see
The majesty of Godhead beaming round Thee

But if thine outward image had been such,
The glory of the inner God revealing,
What hand had dared thy vesture's hem to touch,
Though conscious even touch was fraught with healing!

More truly, but more darkly, prophecy
The form of thy humanity had painted;
One not to be desired of the eye,
A Man of sorrows, and with grief acquainted.

Saviour and Lord! if in thy mortal hour
Prophets and saints alone could tell thy story,
O how shall painter's art, or poet's power,
Describe Thee coming in thy promised glory!