Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By II. At Midnight (“Away with sorrow’s sigh”)Isaac Williams (1802–1865)
A
Our prayers are heard on high;
And through Heaven’s crystal door,
On this our earthly floor
Comes meek-eyed Peace to walk with poor mortality.
There breaks a seraph sound
Of never-ending morn;
The Lord of glory born
Within a holy grot on this our sullen ground.
If it might be allowed,
We fain would enter there
With awful hastening fear,
And kiss that cradle chaste in reverend worship bowed.
That fills our gazing eyes:
A manger coldly strew’d,
And swaddling-bands so rude,
A leaning mother poor, and child that helpless lies.
Of lights the very Light,
Who holdest in Thy hand
The sky and sea and land;
Who than the glorious Heavens art more exceeding bright?
And, through the cloud drawn o’er,
She sees the God of all,
Where Angels prostrate fall,
Adoring tremble still, and trembling still adore.
Yet doth Thy silence speak
From that, Thy Teacher’s seat,
To us around Thy feet,
To shun what flesh desires, what flesh abhors to seek.
Be born, and make us Thine;
Within our souls reveal
Thy love and power to heal;
Be born, and make our hearts Thy cradle and Thy shrine.