Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this:
“He giveth His belovèd sleep”?
What would
we give to our beloved?
The hero’s heart to be unmoved,
The poet’s star tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch’s crown, to light the brows?
He giveth His belovèd sleep.
“Sleep soft, belovèd!” we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His belovèd sleep.
His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His belovèd sleep.
