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Saint, in thy young childhood's day The thought was in thy infant head, That it were sweet to die for Christ, And for the faith thy blood to shed.

But God decreed thee not to fall By sword of Paynim, Turk, or Moor; A living death of martyrdom His love reserv'd thee to endure.

Thy youthful follies oft deplor'd To us have made thee still more dear; Since we in them have come to know Thy candour and thy truth sincere.

For when thy Lord, with sweet reproof, Had made to thee thine errors known, At once thy frank and loving heart Was wholly kept for Him alone.

Oh, what a strange instructive scene Thy life thenceforth began to be! Now suffering dread unheard-of pain, Now lost in wondrous ecstacy.

Now contemplating things divine, Beyond the power of man to tell; Now in appalling vision plung'd, Amid the hopeless cries of hell.

O sweet Teresa, now at last, Thy labours o'er and heaven won, Thou lovest God without restraint, And shinest brighter than the sun. 