Cry, paint for me the manners of the good,Cry, let me hear the melodies of song;
Cry, for long sorrow has my spirit stood,A heart that lived bereft of mercy long;
The heart inclined toward a friend who knowsWhat lies beyond the heart, beyond the clouds;
My heart was healed by longing for the roseOf art's exalted, gently smiling shrouds;
Each wandering soul therein has made its round,As pilgrims circle in the sacred ground;
God gave his passion; bowed he then his headIn stillness, reverence, and regret instead;
O artist, come, let us together traceThose signs of God, abundant in their grace;
We'll kiss the flowers, tend them on the hill,At foothills green or on the summit still;
By Nile's fair bank we'll build our little nestOf floral borders, or of wildflowers dressed;
Then journey toward a throne among the skies—Bless love as pilgrims, if it never dies;
We'll draw our hopes; the world will be our own,We'll kindle verses, wisdom's fire grown;
We look on men whom narrow straits oppress,These waves that surge in injustice's sea;
Save those who seek the guiding light of truth,Who neither see despair nor misery;
God's radiance streams toward them as they liveIn safety, peace, and bounty God will give;
It wakes the hope in souls that once were dead,And spreads warm comfort through the heart instead;
Tenderness pours the light of dreams abroad,To stir in us both love and zeal for God;
That is eternity's clear stream at play—Drink deep that draught, seize fortune while you may;
Grant kindness to the destitute who yearn,That they may pay mankind with good return.
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