The Word upon its wayward route
Goes magic to earnest ears
That strive to hear the ancient lute
Which could move stone hearts to tears
Between the trees it, gentle, blows
Perceptible to some
The Truth will have them rapt in throe
Its music they will happy hum
From rejoicing mouth to rejoicing mouth
On wayward route Word goes
Centrifugally, heading South
Till every spirit knows
       I think I rose, Love, I think I rose
       To know divine sense within me grows