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Christina Georgina Rossetti - Marvel Of Marvels
Work rating: Low

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 belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould, 
Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unrolled, 
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 belovèd, since your funeral bell was tolled: 
Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
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