Classic Poem

“I MMACULATE ,” said that merry queen,
“unblemish'd I am, without a stain;
and this may I with grace avow;
but ‘matchless queen’—that said I ne'er.
We all in bliss are Brides of the Lamb,
a hundred and forty-four thousand in all,
as in the Apocalypse it is clear;
Saint John beheld them in a throng.
On the Hill of Zion, that beauteous spot,
the Apostle beheld them, in dream divine,
array'd for the Bridal on that hill-top,—
the City New of Jerusalem.