THROUGH the old cathedral window

Steals the parting light of day,

Painting many a curious fresco,

Writing many a mystic lay.

'Neath the lofty Gothic archway

Stands the altar old and grim,

With a cross of Lebanon cedar;

On its arms it beareth Him.

And a gold and scarlet sunbeam,

Darting up the sacred aisle,

Crowns Him with a crown of glory,

Lights Him with a holy smile,

Sheds its radiance on the crimson

Streamlet from his pierced side;

From his hands and feet the life blood

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.

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,

But the reverent breeze of evening

Through the belfry chants the lay.

But the saints and martyrs leave us,

Seek their niches in the wall,

Fading with the lessening music,

As the shades of evening fall.