Not that my hand could make of stubborn stone Whate'er of Gods the shaping thought conceives; Not that my skill by pictured lines hath shown All terrors that the guilty soul believes; Not that my art, by blended light and shade, Express'd the world as it was newly made; Not that my verse profoundest truth could teach, In the soft accents of the lover's speech; Not that I rear'd a temple for mankind, To meet and pray in, borne by every wind -- Affords me peace -- I count my gain but loss, For that vast love, that hangs upon the Cross. |