L. P. M.
E. B. Barrett.
Psalm cxxvii. 2.
Of all the thoughts of God, that are
Borne in upon our souls afar
Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
O, tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this,—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers’ heap!
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,—
He giveth His beloved sleep.
His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men toil and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
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