Mid the white spouses of the Sacred Heart, After its queen, the nearest, dearest thou: Yet the aureola around thy brow Is not the virginsââthine a throne apart. Nor yet, my Saint, does faith-illumined art Thy hand with palm of martyrdom endow: And when thy hair is all it will allow Of glory to thy head, we do not start. O more than virgin in thy penitent love! And more than martyr in thy passionate woe! Who knelt not with thee on the gory sod, How should they now sit throned with thee above? Or where the crown our worship could bestow Like that long gold which wiped the feet of God?