The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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September 28
MY CRADLE |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
311
September 28 MY CRADLE
“So he giveth his beloved sleep.”—Ps. cxxvii. 2.
I often cannot sleep at night
From thinking, Lord, of Thee;
Rocked in that cradle of delight,
Thy Hand which holdeth me.
I feel Thee, like my mother's dress,
Or her sweet casing glove;
And then I know the awfulness,
Of Thy most Present Love.
It filleth me with holy fire
And wrappeth round my frame,
Till with the fulness of desire
I nearly die of shame.
From thinking, Lord, of Thee;
Rocked in that cradle of delight,
Thy Hand which holdeth me.
I feel Thee, like my mother's dress,
Or her sweet casing glove;
And then I know the awfulness,
Of Thy most Present Love.
It filleth me with holy fire
And wrappeth round my frame,
Till with the fulness of desire
I nearly die of shame.
No words can utter half the care
Of those unearthly charms,
Which have in every sweet a share
And girdle me like arms.
They soothe at once my peevish pout,
As even more than kin;
They fold me tenderly about,
And tuck me warmly in.
I often seem to sink and drown
In seas of rosy bliss,
And go for ever washing down
Its deep unplumbed abyss.
Of those unearthly charms,
Which have in every sweet a share
And girdle me like arms.
They soothe at once my peevish pout,
As even more than kin;
They fold me tenderly about,
And tuck me warmly in.
I often seem to sink and drown
In seas of rosy bliss,
And go for ever washing down
Its deep unplumbed abyss.
| The Prisoner of Love | |