The Cup I Proffer

He who presseth his lips unto the cup I proffer
Hath bended down unto an everlasting draught.
Yea, he hath quaffed a wine which shall run
Like molten silver within his veins,
And his heart shall be uplifted upon the chalice
Of his love before the throne of the King
I have acclaimed.
Oh, my voice is naught but the echo of love
Which may never die. Nay, the tongue of God
Spake the first word of loving when He uttered
The universe, and within the heart of each man
Is the resurrection of that love.
Behold it cometh forth gushing scarlet,
Leaping like flames. Yea, from out the throats
Of singers, yea, from out the hearts of them
Who sing immortal lays, yea, and from off
The finger tips of them that create.
Yea, from out them that lend their hands
At any labor in His name:
I be but an echo.