259. To His Sweet Saviour
Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep;And Time seems then not for to fly, but creep;Slowly her chariot drives, as if that sheHad broke her wheel, or crack’d her axletree.Just so it is with me, who list’ning, prayThe winds to blow the tedious night away,That I might see the cheerful peeping day.Sick is my heart; O Saviour! do Thou pleaseTo make my bed soft in my sicknesses;Lighten my candle, so that I beneathSleep not for ever in the vaults of death;Let me thy voice betimes i’ th’ morning hear;Call, and I’ll come; say Thou the when and where:Draw me but first, and after Thee I’ll run,And make no one stop till my race be done.