Out of the shuddering night
To Thee I cry in all my sin's despite,
Father of mercy! from Thine holy hill
Heed my complaint, and bid my woes be still!
There is no pain, there is no scalding tear
Where Love is king; and Love alone is here:
To do Thy will the winds and waters sweep
Along the eternal hills and on the moaning deep.
I feel Thy presence here—
A chord of peace upon the enchanted ear
Breathing the tones of heaven: my dark distress
Touched a white garment in the throng and press.
I see the wakeful sentries of the stars
Keep watch and ward above the woods and scars:
And not a star but tuneful tribute brings:
Harmonious all its ways, harmonious songs it sings.
Thine is the still, small voice
That stays the storm and bids the world rejoice:
Thine is the hand that gives divine repose;
To hearts distraught—forgetfulness of woes.
Far in the saintly cloisters of the night
The moon is waning, wondrous, calm, and white:
The clouds enfold her fondly, while the main
Weaves her white footprints in a pearl-entangled chain.
