THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER.
Thou Christ of mine, thy gracious ear low bending
Through these glad New Year days,
To catch the countless prayers to Heaven ascending—
For e'en hard hearts do raise
Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
Or freedom from all care—
Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
Hear now a Christian's prayer.
Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me,
Be as a means of grace
To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
Nearer the Master's face.
If it need be that ere I reach the fountain
Where Living waters play,
My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
Then cast them in my way.
If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
To shape it for thy crown,
Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
With sorrows bear it down.
Do what thou wilt to mold me to thy pleasure,
And if I should complain,
Heap full of anguish yet another measure
Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
Enfold me in thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—
This is a Christian's prayer.
Thou Christ of mine, thy gracious ear low bending
Through these glad New Year days,
To catch the countless prayers to Heaven ascending—
For e'en hard hearts do raise
Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
Or freedom from all care—
Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
Hear now a Christian's prayer.
Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me,
Be as a means of grace
To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
Nearer the Master's face.
If it need be that ere I reach the fountain
Where Living waters play,
My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
Then cast them in my way.
If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
To shape it for thy crown,
Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
With sorrows bear it down.
Do what thou wilt to mold me to thy pleasure,
And if I should complain,
Heap full of anguish yet another measure
Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers—deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
Enfold me in thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them—
This is a Christian's prayer.
IN THE NIGHT.
Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
I hear the strangest things,—
As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
That struggles for form and wings,
I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet,
As it speeds with a rush and a whir
From heart to brain and back again,
Like a race‑horse under the spur.
With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear
The tender Silence speak,
As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
For something that is kin;
And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
As it folds and fondles Sin.
In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
I can hear the Earth catch breath,
As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,
And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star,
Whose name is unknown to me,
I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice,
For I keep ward o'er thee!"
Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range
Through the chambers of the night;
And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates,
May hear, if he lists aright.
Sometimes at night, when I sit and write,
I hear the strangest things,—
As my brain grows hot with burning thought,
That struggles for form and wings,
I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet,
As it speeds with a rush and a whir
From heart to brain and back again,
Like a race‑horse under the spur.
With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear
The tender Silence speak,
As it leans on the breast of Night to rest,
And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns
For something that is kin;
And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss,
As it folds and fondles Sin.
In its hurrying race through leagues of space,
I can hear the Earth catch breath,
As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans,
And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star,
Whose name is unknown to me,
I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice,
For I keep ward o'er thee!"
Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range
Through the chambers of the night;
And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates,
May hear, if he lists aright.