Джон Кибл (John Keble)

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

   “Wake, arm Divine! awake,
      Eye of the only Wise!
   Now for Thy glory’s sake,
      Saviour and God, arise,
And may Thine ear, that sealèd seems,
In pity mark our mournful themes!”

   Thus in her lonely hour
      Thy Church is fain to cry,
   As if Thy love and power
      Were vanished from her sky;
Yet God is there, and at His side
He triumphs, who for sinners died.

   Ah! ’tis the world enthralls
      The Heaven-betrothèd breast:
   The traitor Sense recalls
      The soaring soul from rest.
That bitter sigh was all for earth,
For glories gone and vanished mirth.

   Age would to youth return,
      Farther from Heaven would be,
   To feel the wildfire burn,
      On idolising knee
Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine
Of hearts, the right of Love Divine.

   Lord of this erring flock!
      Thou whose soft showers distil
   On ocean waste or rock,
      Free as on Hermon hill,
Do Thou our craven spirits cheer,
And shame away the selfish tear.

   ’Twas silent all and dead
      Beside the barren sea,
   Where Philip’s steps were led,
      Led by a voice from Thee—
He rose and went, nor asked Thee why,
Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:

   Upon his lonely way
      The high-born traveller came,
   Reading a mournful lay
      Of “One who bore our shame,
Silent Himself, His name untold,
And yet His glories were of old.”

   To muse what Heaven might mean
      His wondering brow he raised,
   And met an eye serene
      That on him watchful gazed.
No Hermit e’er so welcome crossed
A child’s lone path in woodland lost.

   Now wonder turns to love;
      The scrolls of sacred lore
   No darksome mazes prove;
      The desert tires no more
They bathe where holy waters flow,
Then on their way rejoicing go.

   They part to meet in Heaven;
      But of the joy they share,
   Absolving and forgiven,
      The sweet remembrance bear.
Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud.
Bewildered in a heartless crowd,

   Starting and turning pale
      At Rumour’s angry din—
   No storm can now assail
      The charm he wears within,
Rejoicing still, and doing good,
And with the thought of God imbued.

   No glare of high estate,
      No gloom of woe or want,
   The radiance can abate
      Where Heaven delights to haunt:
Sin only bides the genial ray,
And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

   Then weep it from thy heart;
      So mayst thou duly learn
   The intercessor’s part;
      Thy prayers and tears may earn
For fallen souls some healing breath,
Era they have died the Apostate’s death.

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