A Joy if heaven is perpetually bright!
My soul be not undeterred to find...
Myrrh, frankincense or precious, gold:
A swaddling fever to rein out the cold,
Truth; dare not I, not; agonize mankind.
Loves inflicted weariness so, undefined.
The exiled advocate, who leads his fold,
Oughtn't a son to, join a king that shined.
With princely, unabated, breath of old:
Fondly do the stars not shiver out-time?
Doesn't dissembling winter's passage, refine?
Glories brimful, enlivening green and bold.
I err, to listen, to my soul until I'm doled,
The sunbeams countless cuts of endless, night
More my joy if heaven is perpetually, bright.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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