Classic Poem

Not in our waking hours alone
His constancy and care are known;
But locked in slumber fast and deep
He giveth to us while we sleep.

What giveth He? From toil release,
Quiet from God, night's starlit peace;
Till with the coming of the morn
We greet the day, like it new-born.

And pondering this mystery,
There came a larger truth to me,—
How in the sleep that we call death
He sleepeth not nor slumbereth,

But still sustains the silent soul
Until the shadows backward roll,
And with the passing of the night
It wakens in immortal light!

What giveth He? No more again
To know the touch of mortal pain;
All weakness past, each fetter riven,—
For earth the larger life of heaven!

Dear friend, as o'er thy pallid face
The tall white lilies breathed their peace,
And stillness like a solitude
Enwrapt the tearful multitude,

How sweetly on that sea of calm
Floated the music of the psalm,—
The Spirit's voice upon the deep,—
‘He giveth his beloved sleep!’

Once more the sun with lavish hand
Pours lengthening day along the land;
But not with spring-time bloom and bird
Thy smile returns, thy voice is heard:

Yet still we say the old-time words
‘In life, in death, we are the Lord's:’
And trust thee to his love to keep
Who giveth to his own in sleep.