In the hue and cry of day
and life’s impending peril
songs of joy aren’t always sung
nor every lark may carol

Yet Lord I muse upon Your name
far into evening watches
beneath Your wing as in my heart
Your Holy Spirit lodges

though night is the professor now
to stem a faithless storming
still does my soul wait on the Lord
as watchmen for the morning

and from on high the stars that shine
attract my eyes toward heaven
though darkness spans above the clouds
Your will my lone confession

then sweet the whispered nightingale
heard in the quiet sky
she softly sings her comforting
mid colors of the night

and like the Eastern Whippoorwill
with his incessant cry
God’s voice is constant trumpeting
the mercy of our Christ


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