Now that the sun hath veil'd his light And bid the world goodnight; To the soft bed my body I dispose, But where shall my soul repose? Dear, dear God, even in Thy arms, And can there be any so sweet security! Then to thy rest, O my soul! And singing, praise the mercy That prolongs thy days. Hallelujah!
?. An evening hymn  [sung text checked 1 time]
- by William Fuller, Dr., Lord-Bishop of Lincoln (1608 - 1675) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FIN Finnish (Suomi) (Erkki Pullinen) , copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Hymne du soir", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , "Ein Abendlied", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ITA Italian (Italiano) (Adriana Ferrando) , copyright © 2016, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- SPA Spanish (Español) (David Fonseca Astorga) , "Un himno nocturno", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
?. My op'ning eyes are purg'd  [sung text checked 1 time]
Subtitle: A divine song on the passion of our Saviour
My opening eyes are purg'd, and lo! A dismal scene of mighty woe! What is't I see? Mankind's redeemer stretch'd upon the cursed tree; With ghastly wounds his body torn, His limbs with ruder scourges worn; No room for doubt: alas! 'tis he! See, my soul, the purple pride That adorns his thorny crown See the streams that haste to meet Another headlong bloody tide, From his hands, and from his side, To his no less wounded feet, Trickling down. Look how the meriting drops gush out From their wide wound; Mysterious drops of mighty price, Each an offending world's sufficient sacrifice; Like common gore they stain the blushing earth around, From all his emptied veins they flow Profuse and prodigal as worthless streams; Ah see 'em how they fall!
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Researcher for this text: Athony Burton
?. The blessed Virgin's expostulation  [sung text checked 1 time]
Tell me, some pitying angel, quickly say, Where does my soul's sweet darling [stray]1, In tiger's, or more cruel Herod's way? Ah! rather let his little footsteps press Unregarded through the wilderness, Where milder savages resort: The desert's safer than a tyrant's court. Why, fairest object of my love, Why dost thou from my longing eyes remove? Was it a waking dream that did foretell Thy wondrous birth? no vision from above? Where's Gabriel now that visited my cell? I call; he comes not; flatt'ring hopes, farewell. Me Judah's daughters once caress'd, Call'd me of mothers the most bless'd. Now (fatal change!) of mothers most distress'd. How shall my soul its motions guide? How shall I stem the various tide, Whilst faith and doubt my lab'ring soul divide? For whilst of thy dear sight beguil'd, I trust the God, but oh! I fear the child.
- by Nahum Tate (1652 - 1715), "The blessed Virign's expostulation", subtitle: "When our Saviour, at twelve years of age, had withdrawn himself" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
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1 Purcell: in some versions, "stay"
Researcher for this text: Athony Burton
?. The night is come  [sung text checked 1 time]
Subtitle: An evening hymn
The night is come, like to the day, Depart not thou, great God, away; On thee, O Lord, I do repose, Protect me from my watchful foes. So shall I securely lay, And sweetly pass the hours away. Chorus In heav'nly dreams my soul advance, O make my sleep a holy trance. Sleep is a death, O let me try, By sleeping, how it is to die.
The text shown is a variant of another text.
It is based on
- a text in English by Thomas Browne, Sir (1605 - 1682), no title, appears in Religio Medici, from the Second Part
Go to the single-text viewResearcher for this text: Athony Burton