Is. xxvi. 19.
We slept--a sleep
of death, and yet of dreams,
Fair dreams that
pass, and sad dreams that abide,
Where yearneth to
the sound of distant streams
The
soul unsatisfied.
We woke--but oh for
speech of that fair land
Wherein the soul
awaketh, to declare
The wonders that no
heart can understand,
That
hath not entered there.
For there the light
that is not sun nor moon,
That glows as
morning, and as eve is sweet,
And hath the glory
of eternal noon,
Doth
guide the joyful feet.
And there the
streams are no more far away,
And there the
thirsty lips drink deep at last,
Remembering no more
the sultry day,
The
desert that is passed.
And there the
silence is the tenderness
Of love that rests
rejoicing in His own;
And there the lips
are hallowed with His kiss
To
speak of Him alone.
Of none but
Him--for there is Christ alone,
The radiance, and
the river, and the psalm--
The music and the
gladness of His own;
The
everlasting calm.
The secret place,
the Refuge from the blast,
The glorious
Temple, Lamb of God art Thou;
Our feet shall
tread the golden courts at last,
Our
souls have entered now.
Awakened! to
behold Thee face to face,
Henceforward and
for ever drawn apart
To learn of Thee
within Thy holy place
The
secret of Thine Heart.
C. P. C.
