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.