They say there is a hollow, safe and still,

A point of coolness and repose

Within the centre of a flame, where life might dwell

Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell,

Which the bright walls of fire enclose

In breachless splendour, barrier that no foes

Could pass at will.

There is a point of rest

At the great centre of the cyclone’s force,

A silence at its secret source;—

A little child might slumber undistressed,

Without the ruffle of one fairy curl,

In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl.

So, in the centre of these thoughts of God,

Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire,—

As we fall o’erawed

Upon our faces, and are lifted higher

By His great gentleness, and carried nigher

Than unredeemèd angels, till we stand

Even in the hollow of His hand,

Nay, more! we lean upon His breast—

There, there we find a point of perfect rest

And glorious safety. There we see

His thoughts to usward, thoughts of peace

That stoop in tenderest love; that still increase

With increase of our need; that never change,

That never fail, or falter, or forget

O pity infinite!

O royal mercy free!

O gentle climax of the depth and height

Of God’s most precious thoughts, most wonderful, most strange!

‘For I am poor and needy, yet

The Lord Himself, Jehovah, thinketh upon me!’