Ye have stretch'd your hands abroad
With the Spirit's sheathless sword:
Ye have spoken—and the tone
To earth's extremest verge hath gone:
East and west sublime it rolls,
Echoed by a million souls!
The wheels of rapid circling years,
Erst hot with crime, are quench'd in tears.
Rocky hearts wild waters pour,
That were chain'd in stone before:
Bloody hands, that only bare
Hilted sword, are clasp'd in prayer:
Savage tongues, that wont to fling
Shout of war in deathly ring,
Speak the name which angels sing.
Dying lips are lit the while
With a most undying smile,
Which reposing there, instead
Of language, when the lips are dead,