O day of life, of light, of love!
The only day dealt from above!
A day so fresh, so bright, so brave164164brave, splendid,
'Twill show us each forgotten grave,
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 cypress165165cypress, crape drawn
Like clouds, before thy glorious dawn.
O come! arise! shine! do not stay,
Dearly loved 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 bring 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!