And lest the night with sable shade
That azure vault should mar,
He moved his finger there, and made,
At every touch, a star.
With these the moon, his beaming gift,
Here lets her lustre fall,
Our thoughts to win, our hearts to lift
To him, who gave them all.
And he is ours—that Holy One,
Our Father, Guide, and Friend;
In ways untravelled by the sun,
In love that ne’er shall end.
’T is sweet to worship him below,
With his approving eye
To mark the way, our spirits go
To seek his face on high.
[THE HERALD’S CRY IN THE DESERT.]
“He was not that Light; but was sent to bear witness of that Light.”
St. John i. 8.
Awake, O ye nations, and, shaking
The slumber of death from your eyes,
Behold the fair morn in its breaking,
The Sun of all glory arise.