Classic Poem

The winds sing to us where we lie,
They sing to us a pleasant song;
Sweeter than song of mortal mouth,
Spice laden from the sunny south.
They say: This is not death you die;
This slumber shall not hold you long.

The north winds stir around our rest,
Their whispers speak to us and say:
Sleep yet awhile secure and deep,
A little while the blessed sleep;
For your inheritance is best,
And night shall yet bring forth the day.

The western winds are whispering too
Of love, with faith and hope as yet,
Of consummation that shall be,
Of fulness as the unfathomed sea,
When all creation shall be new
And day arise that shall not set.

But from the east a word is sent
To which all other words are dumb:
Lo, I come quickly, saith the Lord,
Myself thy exceeding great Reward: —
While we with thirsty hearts intent
Answer: Yea, come, Lord Jesus, come.