Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

OH! what time wilt Thou come? when shall that cry

‘The Bridegroom’s coming!’ fill the sky?

Shall it in the evening run

When our words and works are done?

Or will Thy all-surprising light

Break at midnight,

When either sleep, or some dark pleasure

Possesseth mad man without measure?

Or shall these early, fragrant hours

Unlock Thy bowers?

And with their blush of light descry

Thy locks crown’d with eternity?

Indeed, it is the only time

That with Thy glory doth best chime;

All now are stirring, every field

Full hymns doth yield;

The whole creation shakes off night,

And for Thy shadow looks, the light;

Stars now vanish without number,

Sleepy planets set and slumber,

The pursy clouds disband and scatter,

All expect some sudden matter,

Not one beam triumphs, but from far

That morning-star.

O at one time soever Thou,

Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow,

And with Thy angels in the van,

Descend to judge poor careless man,

Grant I may not like puddle lie

In a corrupt security,

Where, if a traveller water crave,

He finds it dead, and in a grave;

But at this restless, vocal spring

All day and night doth run and sing,

And though here born, yet is acquainted

Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted;

So let me all my busy age

In Thy free services engage;

And though—while here—of force I must

Have commerce sometimes with poor dust,

And in my flesh, though vile and low,

As this doth in her channel flow,

Yet let my course, my aim, my love,

And chief acquaintance be above;

So when that day and hour shall come,

In which Thy Self will be the sun,

Thou’lt find me dress’d and on my way,

Watching the break of Thy great day.

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