In the Morning

by Willis Boyd Allen

Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark!

Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice,

Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill

His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ

Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years,

The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair,

The agony of help so near at hand,

Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry:

“Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind!

Have mercy on me!”—and the Saviour hears.