" The number of Thine own complete,
Sum up and make an end;
Sift clean the chaff, and house the wheat—
And then, O Lord, descend. “Descend, and solve by that descent,
This mystery of life;
Where good and ill, together blent,
Wage an undying strife. “For rivers twain are gushing still,
And pour a mingled flood;
Good in the very depths of ill—
Ill in the heart of good. “The last are first, the first are last,
As angel eyes behold;
These from the sheepcote sternly cast,
Those welcomed to the fold. “No Christian home, no pastor’s eye,
No preacher’s vocal zeal,
Moved Thy dear martyr to defy
The prison and the wheel. “Forth from the heathen ranks she stepped
The forfeit throne to claim
Of Christian souls who had not kept
Their birthright and their name. “Grace formed her out of sinful dust;
She knelt a soul defiled;
She rose in all the faith and trust
And sweetness of a child. “And in the freshness of that love
She preached by word and deed,
The mysteries of the world above—
Her new-found glorious creed. “And running, in a little hour,
Of life the course complete,
She reached the throne of endless power,
And sits at Jesus’ feet. “Her spirit there, her body here,
Make one the earth and sky;
We use her name, we touch her bier,
We know her God is nigh. "

― John Henry Newman , Callista: A Sketch of the Third Century