Thou winnowest my way,
Thou wilt not let me be;
Each step Thou watchest day by day;
For why? Thou lovest me.
Love must its object bless;
Love cannot brook a flaw;
It knows to stoop with fond caress,
Yet keeps the rod in awe.
Love hath its 'eyes of fire'
To bring me to Thy feet.
To purge and search, it doth not tire
To make its object meet.
Love hath its hand of might
To lay and keep me low;
It hath its touch of fond delight,
That bids all weakness go.
Love hath its 'two-edged sword'
That pierceth through and through;
Love whispers low, 'Fear not thy Lord,
I live - I died for you.'
Love hath its 'eyes like doves,'
That touch the inmost heart,
And sweetly to its object proves
'Thou hast the loved one's part.'"