Джон Кибл (John Keble)

Third Sunday in Advent

   What went ye out to see
   O’er the rude sandy lea,
Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,
   Or where Gennesaret’s wave
   Delights the flowers to lave,
That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm.

   All through the summer night,
   Those blossoms red and bright
Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,
   Like hermits watching still
   Around the sacred hill,
Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.

   The Paschal moon above
   Seems like a saint to rove,
Left shining in the world with Christ alone;
   Below, the lake’s still face
   Sleeps sweetly in th’ embrace
Of mountains terrac’d high with mossy stone.

   Here may we sit, and dream
   Over the heavenly theme,
Till to our soul the former days return;
   Till on the grassy bed,
   Where thousands once He fed,
The world’s incarnate Maker we discern.

   O cross no more the main,
   Wandering so will and vain,
To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,
   On listless dalliance bound,
   Like children gazing round,
Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find.

   Bask not in courtly bower,
   Or sun-bright hall of power,
Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land—
   From robes of Tyrian dye
   Turn with undazzled eye
To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand.

   Or choose thee out a cell
   In Kedron’s storied dell,
Beside the springs of Love, that never die;
   Among the olives kneel
   The chill night-blast to feel,
And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony.

   Then rise at dawn of day,
   And wind thy thoughtful way,
Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade,
   With due feet tracing round
   The city’s northern bound,
To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.

   Who thus alternate see
   His death and victory,
Rising and falling as on angel wings,
   They, while they seem to roam,
   Draw daily nearer home,
Their heart untravell’d still adores the King of kings.

   Or, if at home they stay,
   Yet are they, day by day,
In spirit journeying through the glorious land,
   Not for light Fancy’s reed,
   Nor Honour’s purple meed,
Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand.

   But more than Prophet, more
   Than Angels can adore
With face unveiled, is He they go to seek:
   Blessèd be God, Whose grace
   Shows Him in every place
To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.

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