The Night
THROUGH that pure virgin shrine,That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon,That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine,And face the moon:Wise Nicodemus saw such lightAs made him know his God by night.
Most blest believer he!Who in that land of darkness and blind eyesThy long-expected healing wings could seeWhen Thou didst rise!And, what can never more be done,Did at midnight speak with the Sun!
O, who will tell me whereHe found Thee at that dead and silent hour?What hallowed solitary ground did bearSo rare a flower;Within whose sacred leaves did lieThe fulness of the Deity?
No mercy-seat of gold,No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone,But His own living works did my Lord holdAnd lodge alone;Where trees and herbs did watch, and peep,And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world’s defeat;The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreatWhich none disturb!Christ’s progress, and His prayer-time;The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.
God’s silent, searching flight;When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and allHis locks are wet with the clear drops of night;His still, soft call;His knocking-time; the soul’s dumb watch,When spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were my loud, evil daysCalm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voiceIs seldom rent;Then I in heaven all the long yearWould keep, and never wander here.
But living where the sunDoth all things wake, and where all mix and tireThemselves and others, I consent and runTo every mire;And by this world’s ill-guiding light,Err more than I can do by night.
There is in God—some say—A deep but dazzling darkness; as men hereSay it is late and dusky, because theySee not all clear.O for that night! where I in HimMight live invisible and dim!