O Saviour, precious Saviour, Whom yet unseen we love, O Name of might and favor, All other names above: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our holy Lord and King! O Bringer of salvation, Who wondrously hast wrought, Thyself the revelation Of love beyond our thought: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our gracious Lord and King! In Thee all fullness dwelleth, All grace and power divine; The glory that excelleth, O, Son of God, is Thine: We worship Thee, we bless Thee, To Thee alone we sing; We praise Thee, and confess Thee Our glorious Lord and King! Oh, grant the consummation Of this our song above, In endless adoration, And everlasting love: Then shall we praise and bless Thee, Where perfect praises ring, And evermore confess Thee Our Saviour and our King! --_Frances Ridley Havergal._ THE SLEEP. He giveth His beloved sleep. Ps. cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- 'He giveth His beloved, sleep?' What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-- 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' 'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when 'He giveth _His_ beloved, sleep.' O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And 'giveth His beloved, sleep.' His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap, More softly than the dew is shed, Or clouds is floated overhead, 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.' Aye, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man, Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_-- 'He giveth His beloved, sleep!' For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would child-like on _His_ love repose, Who 'giveth His beloved, sleep!'