Scripture Verse

The dayspring from on high hath visited us. Luke 1:78


Catherine Winkworth (1827–1878)

Words: Chris­tian von Ro­sen­roth, 1664 (Mor­gen­glanz der Ewig­keit). Trans­lat­ed from Ger­man to Eng­lish by Ca­the­rine Wink­worth, Ly­ra Ger­ma­ni­ca (Lon­don & New York: George Newnes & Charles Scrib­ner’s Sons, 1855), pag­es 168–69.

Music: Mor­gen­glanz der Ewig­keit Jo­hann R. Ah­le, 1662 (🔊 pdf nwc).

If you know where to get a good pic­ture of von Ro­sen­roth or Ah­le (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),


Dayspring of eter­ni­ty!
Dawn on us this morn­ing-tide.
Light from light’s ex­haust­less sea,
Now no more Thy ra­di­ance hide,
And dis­pel with glo­ri­ous might
All our night.

Let the morn­ing dew of love
On our sleep­ing con­science rain;
Gentle com­fort from above
Flow through life’s long parch­èd plain
Water dai­ly us Thy flock
From the rock.

Let the glow of love de­stroy
Cold obe­di­ence faint­ly giv­en,
Wake our hearts to love and joy
With the flush­ing east­ern heav'n,
Let us tru­ly rise ere yet
Life hath set.

Brightest Star of east­ern skies,
Let that fa­tal morn ap­pear,
When our bo­dies too shall rise
Free from all that pained them here,
Strong their joy­ful course to run
As the sun.

To yon world be Thou our light,
O Thou glo­ri­ous Sun of Grace;
Lead us through the tear­ful night,
To yon fair and bless­èd place,
Where to joy that ne­ver dies
We shall rise.


Via Crucis

Out of the dark we come, nor know
Into what out­er dark we go.
Wings sweep across the stars at night,
Sweep and are lost in flight,
And down the star-strewn win­dy lanes the sky
Is emp­ty as be­fore the wings went by.
We dare not lift our eyes, lest we should see
The ut­ter quiet of eter­ni­ty;
So, in the end, we come to this:
Christ-Mary’s kiss.

We can­not brook the wide sun’s might,
We are alone and chilled by night;
We stand, atrem­ble and afraid,
Upon the small worlds we have made;
Fearful, lest all our poor con­trol
Should turn and tear us to the soul;
A dread, lest we should be de­nied
The price we hold our raged pride;
So in the end we cast them by
For a gaunt cross against the sky.

To those who quest­ion is the fine re­ward
Of the brave heart who fights with brok­en sword
In the dark night against an un­seen enemy;
There is not any hope of vic­to­ry.
While sweat is sweet and earth­ly ways and toil,
The touch of shoul­ders, scent of new-turned soil,
Striving it­self amid the thrust­ing throng,
And love that comes with white hands strong;
But on it­self the long path turns again,
To find at length the hill of pain.

Such on­ly do we know and see;
Starlight and ev­en­ing mys­te­ry,
Sunlight on peaks and dust-red plain,
Thunder and the quick breath of rain,
Stirring of fields and all the love­ly things
That sea­son af­ter sea­son brings;
Young dawn and qui­et night
And the earth’s might.
But all our wis­dom and our wis­dom’s plan
End in the lone­ly figure of a Man.

Maxwell Stru­thers Burt
In the High Hills, 1914