The Treasury Of Sacred Song

O day of life, of light, of love!

The only day dealt from above!

A day so fresh, so bright, so brave [164] ,

'Twill show us each forgotten grave,

And make the dead, like flowers, arise

Youthful and fair to see new skies.

All other days, compared to thee,

Are but Light's weak minority;

They are but veils and cypress [165] drawn

Like clouds, before thy glorious dawn.

O come! arise! shine! do not stay,

Dearly loved Day!

The fields are long since white, and I

With earnest groans for freedom cry;

My fellow-creatures too say, Come!

And stones, though speechless, are not dumb.

When shall we hear that glorious voice

Of life and joys?

That voice which to each secret bed

Of my LORD's dead

Shall bring true day, and make dust see

The way to immortality?

When shall those first white pilgrims rise,

Whose holy, happy histories

-- Because they sleep so long -- some men

Count but the blots of a vain pen?

Dear LORD! make haste!