O day of life, of light, of love!
The only day dealt from above! A day so fresh, so bright, so brave, ’Twill show us each forgotten grace, 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 drawn Like clouds, before thy glorious dawn. O come! arise! shine! do not stay, Dearly lov’d 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 being 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! Sin every day commits more waste; And Thy old enemy, which knows His time is short, more raging grows. Nor moan I only – though profuse – Thy creature’s bondage and abuse; But what is highest sin and shame, The vile despite done to Thy name; The forgeries, which impious wit And power force on Holy Writ, With all detestable designs, That may dishonour those pure lines. O God! though mercy be in Thee The greatest attribute we see, And the most needful for our sins; Yet, when Thy mercy nothing wins But mere disdain, let not man say “Thy arm doth sleep”, but write this day Thy judging one: descend, descend! Make all things news, and without end! Henry Vaughan, 1621-1695
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