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By Robert Hugh Benson

She moves in tumult; round her lies

The silence of the world of grace;

The twilight of our mysteries

Shines like high noonday on her face;

Our piteous guesses, dim with fears,

She touches, handles, sees, and hears.

In her all longings mix and meet;

Dumb souls through her are eloquent;

She feels the world beneath her feet

Thrill in a passionate intent;

Through her our tides of feeling roll

And find their God within her soul.

Her faith and awful Face of God

Brightens and blinds with utter light;

Her footsteps fall where late He trod;

She sinks in roaring voids of night;

Cries to her Lord in black despair,

And knows, yet knows not, He is there.

A willing sacrifice she takes

The burden of our fall within;

Holy she stands; while on her breaks

The lightning of the wrath of sin;

She drinks her Saviour’s cup of pain,

And, one with Jesus, thirsts again.