VOICE OF GOD IN THE COOL OF
THE DAY.
“They heard the Voice of the Lord God walking in
the garden in the cool of the day.”—Gen. iii. 8.
How soothing, when the noise of day is o'er
And fever'd heart-cares sink, becalm'd and cool,
To wind the bay of some receding shore,
And bathe our spirit in the beautiful!
Creation is no mute unconscious mass
Of pregnant matter, into being plann'd,
For, when behind the outer-veil we pass,
Faith hears it speaking of Emanuel's hand.
The blood-priced earth's a Sacrament of Him
Whose regal glories make man's All in All,
Under Whose throne both saints and seraphim,
Inflamed with burning adoration, fall.
There was a time when Eve and Adam heard
His voice almighty through soft twilight roll,
And, like glad waters by deep music stirr'd,
They felt it echo'd by responsive soul.
But, when dark Treason like a hell-cloud rose
And guilt between them and His glory came,
The full warm current of affection froze,
And Conscience shudder'd at Jehovah's name!
“I heard Thy voice, and hid myself, afraid,
For naked horrors scared the inward eye,
And while my ruin'd soul was thus display'd,
The ground beneath me mutter'd, ‘Thou shalt die!’”
Oh! dread confession of our fallen doom,
That men are exiles from their God, afar,
That souls are pall'd with atheistic gloom,
And, but for grace, would perish as they are.
For like as Adam shrunk behind a tree,
And paled with cowardice to look on God,
Revolting hearts the Holy Presence flee,
And tread the path that first transgressor trod.
But, Lord of heaven! when Thy relenting hand
The ruin'd soul hath reconciled with Blood,
And Thy blest will, by holiness preferr'd,
Becomes at once our glory and our good,
Then, unlike Adam, by dark guilt appall'd,
We shrink no longer from the Voice Divine,
But love to hear it in our hearts recall'd,
And see creation with redemption shine.
The challenge dread, “Where art thou?” booms no more,
But, “Here are we,” anticipates the cry;
For Sinai's thunders hush their penal roar,
And sound as gently as Emanuel's sigh.
Where shall we hie to hear that mystic tone?
To halls of Splendour, or to homes of Sin?
Not there, my brother! can The Voice be known
Whose breath is music heard from God within!
But if thine ear be tender, clear, and true,
And sensual clay no longer clog the mind,
Then may thy soul His hidden glory view,
And hear Christ vocal in the wave and wind.
Whether, if cherub Morn her wings unfold,
And drops of balm each glade and glen array,
Thou lov'st to mark the orient mists uproll'd,
While ope the eyelids of commencing Day.
Or, on the marble sea, at noon entranced,
In breezeless glory rock'd to living rest,
From some lone cliff thy pensive eye has glanced,
Till ocean's calm lay mirror'd on thy breast;
Or, thou hast mused at sunset, sad and pale,
By pebbled shore where plaintive waters meet,
Till gradual Twilight dropt her dewy veil,
And dark the seaweed slumber'd at thy feet,—
Alike in all a saintly mind can hear
Some tone celestial, like a spirit glide,
And breathe to Nature that her God is near,
And all her spell-work by His hand supplied.
And thus, dear Lord! in what we do, or dare,
Be Thy meek virtues our most glorious choice;
From sea and mountain may we lift our prayer,
And hear creation echo'd with Thy Voice.
In the cool evening of life's calm decay
Soft o'er the soul may lulling whispers fall,
And Wisdom teach our filial hearts to pray
“Father in Heaven! for home prepare us all.”
