Life that moved in the deeps below
Felt the fire in its bosom glow;
Life awoke with the Light allied,
Grew divinely stirred, and cried: 
“This is the Ancient of Days within,
Light that is ere our days begin.

“Every power in the spirit’s ken
Springs anew in our lives again. 
We had but dreams of the heart’s desire
Beauty thrilled with the mystic fire. 
The white-fire breath whence springs the power
Flows alone in the spirit’s hour.”

Man arose the earth he trod,
Grew divine as he gazed on God: 
Light in a fiery whirlwind broke
Out of the dark divine and spoke: 
Man went forth through the vast to tread
By the spirit of wisdom charioted.

There came the learned of the schools
Who measure heavenly things by rules,
The sceptic, doubter, the logician,
Who in all sacred things precision,
Would mark the limit, fix the scope,
“Art thou the Christ for whom we hope? 
Art thou a magian, or in thee
Has the divine eye power to see?”
He answered low to those who came,
“Not this, nor this, nor this I claim. 
More than the yearning of the heart
I have no wisdom to impart. 
I am the voice that cries in him
Whose heart is dead, whose eyes are dim,
’Make pure the paths where through may run
The light-streams from that golden one,
The Self who lives within the sun.’ 
As spake the seer of ancient days.” 
The voices from the earthly ways
Questioned him still:  “What dost thou here,
If neither prophet, king nor seer? 
What power is kindled by they might?”
“I flow before the feet of Light: 
I am the purifying stream. 
But One of whom ye have no dream,
Whose footsteps move among you still,
Though dark, divine, invisible. 
Impelled by Him, before His ways
I journey, though I dare not raise
Even from the ground these eyes so dim
Or look upon the feet of Him.”

When the dead or dreamy hours
        Like a mantle fall away,
Wakes the eye of gnostic powers
        To the light of hidden day,

And the yearning heart within
        Seeks the true, the only friend,
He who burdened with our sin
        Loves and loves unto the end.

Ah, the martyr of the world,
        With a face of steadfast peace
Round whose brow the light is curled: 
        ’Tis the Lamb with golden fleece.

So they called of old the shining,
        Such a face the sons of men
See, and all its life divining
        Wake primeval fires again.

Such a face and such a glory
        Passed before the eyes of John,
With a breath of olden story
        Blown from ages long agone