A soft suffusing molten gold,
With motes that twirl in constant dance,
Shines through the window, thin but bold,
And spears the shadows like a lance.
The stone illum'ned casts out a spray
Of lesser beams of greater hue
That, through the threshold, greet the day
By gleaming off the morning dew
To rise again to meet their Lord,
Who forged them from a precious place,
And who, finding their look untoward,
Restores them to their former grace.
The colors join, and fade to white;
A blameless glory, clear and bright.