An Angel came and cried to him by night,
‘God needs a Martyr from your little band;
Name me the purest soul, which, closely scanned,
Still overflows with sweetness and with light
That find no limit till they reach the Land
Whence first they sprang.’ Weeping for what must be,
He named them all, with love adorning each;
And still that Angel smiled upon his speech,
And, smiling still, went upward silently
Not marking any name. Amazed he knelt,
Pondering the silent choice. But when the stroke
Fell, not an Angel, but the Master, spoke,
With voice so strong that nothing else was felt:
‘Thou art the man. Belovèd, come to Me!’