Wide-open Door, beneath Your bow
I lean; Your crossèd frame
all tremor, torrent, tempest's blow
abjures, true-speaks Your claim.
Deep-stainèd Portal, hyssop-kissed
and drenched in knife-drawn life,
by You souls flee the tombs and twists
of sin and guilt and grief.
And through You, Gate, must any flee
who prize what cannot stain;
who grasp at immortality,
Yourself thereby to gain.
Beneath Your lintel, blessèd Door
I lean, and never fall.
Add my own sanguine drops to Yours;
See, here, I bring Your awl.