God only, and good angels, look 
Behind the blissful ^screen— 
As when, triumphant o’er his woes, 
The Son of God, by moonlight rose, 
By all but Heaven unseen: 
As when the holy maid beheld 
Her risen Son and Lord : 
Thought has not colors half so fair 
That she to paint that hour may dare, 
In silence best adored. 
The gracious Dove, that brougn* from hea 
The earnest of our bliss, 
Of many a chosen witness telung. 
On many a happy vision dwelling, 
Sings not a note of this. 
So, truest image of the Christ, 
Old Israel’s long-lost Son, 
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
He called his conscious brethren near. 
Would weep with them alone 
