Mingle in the ruddy tide.
While the strange, fantastic angels,
Carved in wood above his head,
In the mellow light seem weeping
O'er their Master, pierced and dead.
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Saints and martyrs, quaint and timeworn,
From their niches in the wall,
See again their suffering Saviour,
And in adoration fall.
Lo! a Gloria through the vaulted
Arches welling, soft and sweet,
Lays its glad, triumphant music
'Neath the cross at Jesus' feet.
'T is no earthly choir that sings it,
Thus no earthly organs play,
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