Holy of holies, my bare feet draw nigh: Jesus, thy body is the shining veil By which I look on God, nor grow death-pale. I know that in my verses poor may lie Things low, for see, the thinker is not high! But were my song as loud as saints' all-hail, As pure as prophet's cry of warning wail, As holy as thy mother's ecstasy-- He sings a better, who, for love or ruth, Into his heart a little child doth take. Nor thoughts nor feelings, art nor wisdom seal The man who at thy table bread shall break. Thy praise was not that thou didst know, or feel, Or show, or love, but that thou didst the truth.