In chapel proud or lowly,

High tapers burning dim,

The fervent folk of morning Bow down and wait for Him.

Faithful He comes nor tarries,

Punctual at a phrase,

Swift on the mystic summons That bids Him live, and slays.

Without a stir His presence,

No glory gilds the sky;

Only the few perceiving That Jesus passes by.

Silent is Priest and Victim,

The Slayer and the Slain;

Never a whispered greeting,

He lives and dies again.

May God Who dies at morning,

Though bloodless now His doom,

Find every heart a garden That keeps for Him a tomb.

Edwin Essex, O.P.