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| OF all the thoughts of God that are | |
| Borne inward into souls afar, | |
| Along the Psalmist’s music deep, | |
| Now tell me if that any is | |
| For gift or grace surpassing this— | 5 |
| “He giveth His beloved, sleep”? | |
| |
| What would we give to our beloved? | |
| The hero’s heart to be unmoved, | |
| The poet’s star-tun’d harp to sweep, | |
| The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse, | 10 |
| The monarch’s crown to light the brows?— | |
| He giveth His beloved, sleep. | |
| |
| What do we give to our beloved? | |
| A little faith all undisproved, | |
| A little dust to overweep, | 15 |
| And bitter memories to make | |
| The whole earth blasted for our sake: | |
| He giveth His beloved, sleep. | |
| |
| “Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say | |
| Who have no tune to charm away | 20 |
| Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: | |
| But never doleful dream again | |
| Shall break the happy slumber when | |
| He giveth His beloved, sleep. | |
| |
| O earth, so full of dreary noises! | 25 |
| O men, with wailing in your voices! | |
| O delved gold, the wailers heap! | |
| O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! | |
| God strikes a silence through you all, | |
| And giveth His beloved, sleep. | 30 |
| |
| His dews drop mutely on the hill, | |
| His cloud above it saileth still, | |
| Though on its slope men sow and reap: | |
| More softly than the dew is shed, | |
| Or cloud is floated overhead, | 35 |
| He giveth His beloved, sleep. | |
| |
| Ay, men may wonder while they scan | |
| A living, thinking, feeling man | |
| Confirm’d in such a rest to keep; | |
| But angels say, and through the word | 40 |
| I think their happy smile is heard— | |
| “He giveth His beloved, sleep.” | |
| |
| For me, my heart that erst did go | |
| Most like a tired child at a show, | |
| That sees through tears the mummers leap, | 45 |
| Would now its wearied vision close, | |
| Would childlike on His love repose | |
| Who giveth His beloved, sleep. | |
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| And friends, dear friends, when it shall be | |
| That this low breath is gone from me, | 50 |
| And round my bier ye come to weep, | |
| Let One, most loving of you all, | |
| Say, “Not a tear must o’er her fall! | |
| He giveth His beloved, sleep.” | |
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