Holy Zephyrs

Ye airs of tides agone,
That smote the cheek of Him;
Upon the earth dost thou still stir?
Then waft ye close. Yea, fan ye
This fevered earth, that it shall know
The sweet that clingeth thee.
Unto earth's wounds speed thou, thou airs
That played ye o'er the wounds of Him.
Waft ye about the earth, and bear ye
E'en the wraith of thy rich store.
For lo, methinks that did a lily white
To stand, and thou shouldst seek her,
'Twould blush it crimsoned o'er with joy!