For all night long I dreamed of you: 
I woke and prayed against my will,
Then slept to dream of you again. 
At length I rose and knelt and prayed: 
I cannot write the words I said, 130
My words were slow, my tears were few;
But through the dark my silence spoke
Like thunder.  When this morning broke,
My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
And frozen blood was on the sill
Where stifling in my struggle I lay.

If now you saw me you would say: 
Where is the face I used to love? 
And I would answer:  Gone before;
It tarries veiled in paradise. 140
When once the morning star shall rise,
When earth with shadow flees away
And we stand safe within the door,
Then you shall lift the veil thereof. 
Look up, rise up:  for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set;
There we shall meet as once we met
And love with old familiar love.

UP-HILL

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 
  Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? 
  From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? 
  A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face? 
  You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 
  Those who have gone before. 10
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 
  They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 
  Of labour you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 
  Yea, beds for all who come.

DEVOTIONAL PIECES

‘The love of Christ which passeth knowledge’

I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
  Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;
I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
    For three and thirty years.

Who else had dared for thee what I have dared? 
  I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared: 
    Give thou Me love for love.

For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
  For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:  10
Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth: 
    Why wilt thou still be lost?

I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced: 
  Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced,
    Or wagged their heads in scorn.

Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
  Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes: 
I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;
    I, God, Priest, Sacrifice. 20