They say there is a hollow, safe and still,
A point of coolness and repose
Within the centre of a flame, where life might dwell
Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell,
Which the bright walls of fire enclose
In breachless splendour, barrier that no foes
Could pass at will.
There is a point of rest
At the great centre of the cyclone’s force,
A silence at its secret source;--
A little child might slumber undistressed,
Without the ruffle of one fairy curl,
In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl.
So in the centre of these thoughts of God,
Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire,--
As we fall o’erawed
Upon our faces, and are lifted higher
By His great gentleness, and carried nigher
Than unredeemèd angels, till we stand
Even in the hollow of His hand,--
Nay more! we lean upon His breast--
There, there we find a point of perfect rest
And glorious safety. There we see
His thoughts to us-ward, thoughts of peace
That stoop to tenderest love; that still increase
With increase of our need; that never change,
That never fail, or falter, or forget.
O pity infinite!
O royal mercy free!
O gentle climax of the depth and height
Of God’s most precious thoughts, most wonderful, most strange!
For I am poor and needy, yet
The Lord Himself, Jehovah, thinketh upon me!