Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HYMN OF KING OLAF THE SAINT, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HYMN OF KING OLAF THE SAINT, by                    
First Line: "swend, king of all"
Last Line: On saints who with god are staying
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers;heaven;saints; Paradise


SWEND, king of all,
In Olaf's hall
Now sits in state on high;
Whilst up in heaven
Amidst the shriven
Sits Olaf's majesty.
For not in cell
Does our hero dwell,
But in realms of light for ever:
As a ransom'd saint
To heal our plaint,
Be glory to thee, gold-giver!

Of raptures there
He has won his share,
All cleansed from taint of sin;
For on earth prepared,
No toil he spared
That holy place to win.
That he hath won
Near God's dear Son
Fast by the holy river --
Oh, such as thine
May the end be mine;
Be glory to thee, gold-giver!
His sacred form
Unscathed by worm,
And clear as the hour he died,
Lies at this day
Where good men pray
At morn and at eventide.
His nails and his hair
Are fresh and fair,
With his yellow locks still growing;
His cheek as red,
And his flesh not dead,
Though the blood hath ceased from flowing.

If you watch by night,
In the dim twilight
You may hear a requiem singing;
And the people hear
Above his bier
A small bell clearly ringing.
And if ye wait
Until midnight late,
You may hear the great bell toll:
But none can tell
Who tolls that bell
If it sounds for Olaf's soul.

With tapers clear,
Which Christ holds dear,
O'er the corpse so still reclining,
By day and night
Is the altar light
And the cross of the Saviour shining.
For our King did so,
And all men know
That washed from sin and shriven,
All free from taint,
A ransom'd saint,
He dwells with the saints in heaven.

And thousands come,
The deaf and the dumb,
To the tomb of our monarch here --
The sick and the blind
Of every kind
They throng to the holy bier.
With heads all bare
They breathe their prayer
As they kneel on the flinty ground:
God hears their sighs,
And the sick men rise
All whole, and healed, and sound.

Then to Olaf pray,
To spare thy day
From wrath, and wrong, and harm;
To save thy land
From the spoiler's hand,
And the fell invader's arm.
God's man is he,
To deal to thee
What is asked in a lowly spirit --
Let thy prayer not cease,
And wealth, and peace,
And a blessing thou shalt inherit.

For prayers are good,
If before the rood
Thy beads thou tellest praying;
If thou tellest on,
Forgetting none
Of the saints who with God are staying.





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