“_She moves in tumult: round her lies The silence of the world of grace; The twilight of our mysteries Shines like high noon-day on her face, Our piteous guesses, dim with fears, She touches, handles, sees, and hears._ “_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._” THE CONTEMPLATIVE SOUL…
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