Without the ruffle of one fairy curl,
In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl.
So, in the centre of these thoughts of God,
Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire,—
As we fall o’erawed
Upon our faces, and are lifted higher
By His great gentleness, and carried nigher
Than unredeemèd angels, till we stand
Even in the hollow of His hand,
Nay, more! we lean upon His breast—