Poem for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

All other love is like the moon
That waxeth or waneth as flower plain
As flower that blooms and fadeth soon,
As day that showereth and ends in rain.

All other love begins with bliss,
In weeping and woe makes its ending;
No love there is that’s our whole bliss
But that which rests on heaven’s King.

His love is fresh and ever green
And ever full without waning;
His love makes sweet and gives no pain,
His love is endless, enduring.
-author unknown, circa 1350

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