The thorn from out thy foot is drawn; thy thanks let’s see.
“My Lord! My God!” loud cried our minstrel in that place,
Those glorious realms of mercy, boundless shores of grace.
About that time the Lord on ‘Umer slumber sent.
He could not keep awake; beneath sleep’s burden bent.205
With wonder thought he ’twas unprecedented: “See!
This sleep’s divinely ordered; purpose there must be.”
His head he bowed; sleep bound him fast; a dream he saw,
A voice from God he heard,—for him a sacred law.
God’s voice the real source is of every cry and sound;