. . . . . . . . br Hope holds to Christ the mind’s own mirror out br To take His lovely likeness more and more. br It will not well, so she would bring about br An ever brighter burnish than before br And turns to wash it from her welling eyes br And breathes the blots off all with sighs on sighs. br Her glass is blest but she as good as blind br Holds till hand aches and wonders what is there; br Her glass drinks light, she darkles down behind, br All of her glorious gainings unaware. br . . . . . . . . br I told you that she turned her mirror dim br Betweenwhiles, but she sees herself not Him. br . . . . . . . .