Not made with hands, its walls began to climb
From roots in life’s foundations deeply set,
Far down amid primaeval forms, where yet
Creation’s finger seemed to probe in slime.
Yet not in vain passed those first-born of time,
Since each some presage gave of structure met
In higher types, lest these the bond forget
That links Earth’s latest to the fore-world’s prime
And living stone on living stone was laid,
In scale ascending ever, grade on grade,
To that which in its Maker’s eyes seemed good--
The Human Form: and in that shrine of thought,
By the long travail of the ages wrought,
The temple of the Incarnation stood.

Through all the ages since the primal ray,
Herald of life, first smote the abysmal night
Of elemental Chaos, and the might
Of the creative spark informed the clay,
From worm to brute, from brute to man--its way
The shaping thought took upward, flight on flight,
By stages which Earth’s loftiest unite
Unto her least, made kin to such as they.
As living link, or prophecy, or type
Of purpose for fulfillment yet unripe,
Each has its niche in the supreme design;
Converging to one pinnacle, whereat
Sole stands creation’s Masterpiece--and that
Which was through her—the human made divine.

--Ellen Mary Clerke