Of Love, the Handmaiden of the Soul, and of the Soul whom Love hath Smitten

Of old, belovèd damsel, My handmaid thou wouldst be; But thy ways are strange and wondrous, Thou hast chased and captured me. Thou hast wounded me right sore, Thou hast smitten me amain, And I know that never more Can my heart be whole again. Can the hand that has wounded heal? Or slay, if no balm there be? Else had it been for my weal Thou wert all unknown to me.

“I chased thee, for so was my will; I captured thee, for my need; I bound thee, and bind thee still, For I would not have thee freed; I wounded thee sore, that for evermore Thou shouldest live by my life alone: When I smote thee, mine wert thou life and limb; I drave the Almighty God from His throne, Of the life of His manhood despoiled I Him. I brought Him back in glorious might To the Father in heaven’s eternal light; And thou, poor worm, shouldst thou go free, As if my hand had not smitten thee?”