The very graves yield up their dead, 
And high thrones shake ; 
 
Because my eyes still steadily behold, 
And dazzle not, nor shun the night, 
The foam-born lamp of beaten gold 
And secret might ; 
 
Because my forehead bears the sacred name, 
And my lips bear the brand 
Of Him whose heaven is one flame, 
Whose holy hand 
 
Gathers this earth, who built the vaults of space, 
Moulded the stars, and fixed the iron sea, 
Because His love lights through my face 
And all of me. 
 
Because my hand may fasten on the sword 
If my heart falter not, and smite 
Those lampless limits most abhorred 
Of iron night, 
 
89