The Sun of Righteousness

The sick man in his chamber,
Through the long weary night
Toss'd on his restless pillow,
How longs he for the light!

He counts the hours that linger,
Heavy with clouds and rain,
And a great weight of darkness
Lies on his fever'd brain.

He hears the loud clock ticking,
And the owl hoot afar,
While glimmers the pale night-light,
And fades the midnight star.

Till eastward in the heaven
He sees, at last, the sign,
O'er the far purple mountains,
A single silver line;

It broadens, and it deepens
To a sea of red and gold,
With clouds of rosy amber
Around its glory roll'd:

Till each pane of his window
Is silver'd o'er and o'er,
And lines of golden arrows
Lie on the dusky floor.

The sick soul lieth weary
In the world's soft unrest,
With clouds of care and sorrow,
And weight of sins opprest.

Out of the night she crieth,
Out of the narrow room:—
“O Saviour, gentle Saviour,
Wilt Thou not pierce the gloom?

“Break on this night of longing,
Where hand in hand we grope
Through wastes of vain endeavours,
'Neath stars of fruitless hope,

“Over the hills of sadness
That hem us darkly in,
Rough with our tears and losses,
And black with many a sin.

“Rise, rise above the mountains,
With healing on Thy wings,
Break into the dark chambers
Where pain in secret stings.

“Come, while the morning tarries
Our waiting eyes to bless,
Look through the lowly lattice,
Bright Sun of Righteousness!

“Set, for the hearts that love Thee,
Thy token up above,
The white rays of redemption,
And the red fire of love.

“Out of our gloom we call Thee,
Out of our helpless night:
Sun of the world, sweet Saviour,
Show us Thy perfect light!”

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.