Ah my poor erring flock,

Truant and slow to come unto my ways,

Making an airy mock

Of those choice pastures where my chosen graze,

You loiter childishly in pleasure’s maze,

nheedful of the clock.

Mere tuneless vanities

Deflect you from the music of my word;

You haste or take your ease

As if your cadences could be deferred,

Giving your whole consent to brief, absurd

And piping symphonies.

The crozier, alb and cope

Compose the ancient blazons of my truth

Whose broad intent and scope

Shows how discordant are the glees of youth,

How weak the serum of that serpent’s tooth

The ignorant call hope.

Yet shall you come to see

In articles and emblems of my faith

That in mortality

Lies all our comfort, as the preacher saith,

And to the blessèd kingdom of the wraith

I have been given the key.