What thin-dimensioned art could herald you,

You whose sovereign grace no bounds contain?

Beheld by sight or weighed by virtue true,

No scale nor depth your worth could yet explain.

No sculpture, portrait or fine script borne praise

Could ever mark your poise—nor any song

Sung here by angels heralding heaven’s grace,

Might hail that sacred place where you belong.

No hand of man—or still, what hand of God?

Save He who blessed your pilgrimage to earth

Could frame a work all demigods applaud—

Where sure no mortal born could here besmirch.

Ethereal in scope, what art dare read;

As every eye that stares will so concede.