Filled With Her Love, May I Be

The Sun Must Not Set Upon Anger, Much Less Will I Let The Sun Set Upon The Anger Of God Towards Me.

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.

Yet Nothing Can To Nothing Fall, Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite; Therefore I Think My Breast Hath All Those Pieces Still, Though They Be Not Unite; And Now, As Broken Glasses Show A Hundred Lesser Faces, So My Rags Of Heart Can Like, Wish, And Adore, But After One Such Love, Can Love No More.

Humiliation Is The Beginning Of Sanctification.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.