[T]he pure memories given

The lotos bowed above the tide and dreamed.

Pain is no longer pain when it is past.

Gracious as sunshine, sweet as dew Shut in a lily's golden core.

With guilt's defilement stained without, within, How can I hope Thy cleansing grace to win? —Because Thou saidst, "I have forgiven thy sin."

White as the blossoms which the almond-tree, Above its bald and leafless branches bears.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.