Birds have their quiet nest,
Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed;
All creatures have their rest:
But Jesus had not where to lay His head.
Winds have their hours of calm,
And waves—to slumber on the voiceless deep;
Eve hath its breath of balm,
To hush all senses and all sounds to sleep.
The wild deer hath his lair,
The homeward flocks the shelter of their shed;
All have their rest from care:
But Jesus had not where to lay His head.
And yet He came to give
The weary and the heavy laden rest,
To bid the sinner live,
And soothe our griefs to slumber on His breast.
What then am I, my God,
Permitted thus the path of peace to tread—
Peace, purchased by the blood
Of Him who had not where to lay His head?
I—who once made Him grieve,
I—who once bid His gentle spirit mourn,
Whose hand essayed to weave
For His meek brow the cruel crown of thorn!
Oh, why should I have peace?
Why? but for that unchanged, undying love
Which would not, could not cease
Until it made me heir of joys above.
Yes; but for pardoning grace
I feel I never should in glory see
The brightness of that face
That once was pale and agonized for me,
Let the birds seek their rest,
Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed.
Come, Savior! on my breast
Deign to repose thine oft-rejected head.
Come, give me rest, and take
The only rest on earth thou lov’st, within
A heart that, for thy sake,
Lies bleeding, broken, penitent for sin.
J. S. Β. M.