Not Till the Freezing Blast Is Still

Not till the freez­ing blast is still

Till free­ly leaps the spark­ling rill

And gales sweep soft from sum­mer skies

As o’er a sleep­ing in­fant’s eyes

A mo­ther’s kiss; ere calls like these

No sun­ny gleam awakes the trees

Nor dare the ten­der flow­er­ets show

Their bo­soms to th’ un­cer­tain glow.

Why then

in sad and win­try time

Her heav’ns all dark with doubt and crime

Why lifts the Church her droop­ing head

As though her ev­il hour were fled?

Is she less wise than leaves of spring

Or birds that cow­er with fold­ed wing?

What sees she in this low­er­ing sky

To tempt her me­di­ta­tive eye?

She has a charm

a word of fire

A pledge of love that can­not tire;

By tem­pests

earth­quakes

and by wars

By rush­ing waves and fall­ing stars

By ev­ery sign her Lord fore­told

She sees the world is wax­ing old

And through that last and dir­est storm

Descries by faith her Sav­ior’s form.

Not sur­er does each ten­der gem

Set in the fig tree’s pol­ished stem

Foreshow the sum­mer sea­son bland

Than these dread signs Thy migh­ty hand:

But

oh! frail hearts

and spir­its dark!

The sea­son’s flight un­warned we mark

But miss the Judge be­hind the door

For all the light of sac­red lore:

Yet is He there; be­neath our eaves

Each sound His wake­ful ear re­ceives:

Hush

idle words

and thoughts of ill

Your Lord is list­en­ing: peace

be still.

Christ watch­es by a Christ­ian’s hearth

Be si­lent

vain de­lud­ing mirth

Till in thine al­tered voice be known

Somewhat of re­sig­na­tion’s tone.

But chief­ly ye should lift your gaze

Above the world’s un­cer­tain haze

And look with calm un­wa­ver­ing eye

On the bright fields be­yond the sky

Ye

who your Lord’s com­miss­ion bear

His way of mer­cy to pre­pare:

Angels He calls ye: be your strife

To lead on earth an an­gel’s life.

Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet

Start up

and ply your heav’n­ward feet.

Is not God’s oath up­on your head

Ne’er to sink back on sloth­ful bed

Never again your loins un­tie

Nor let your torch­es waste and die

Till

when the sha­dows thick­est fall

Ye hear your Mas­ter’s mid­night call?