The Hour of God that Now Arrives

In the closet of an ill-used mind

I found a treasury of things,

A thousand winters of delight,

The laughter of a thousand springs.

No spider-webs of thought were there

No contraries that could not meet

A melody upon the air

A golden carpet for my feet.

In an alcove of another kind,

A space where silent beauty grew

All sorrow fled as I reclined

On flower carpets white and blue.

In the body's house so fairly built

By the architect who dreams our lives

I saw transformed all sin and guilt

In the hour of god that now arrives.