P. P. Bliss

NIGHT has fallen on the city,

And the streets at last are still,

Where the noisy crowd, the day long,

Did the air with shouting fill;

And the weary, wayworn travellers,

Preaching Jesus through the land,

Are in deepest dungeon darkness,

By the magistrates’ command.


Many stripes to them are given,

Many curses on them cast;

Many bolts and bars surround them;

In the stocks their feet are fast;

While the cruel Roman jailer

All securely sleeping on,

Little dreams the mighty wonders

Of the morrow’s early dawn.


Hark the sighing of the prisoners!

Hear their moanings loud and long!

No: again, and louder, clearer,

’Tis the voice of prayer and song!

See, the prison walls are shaking,

And the door wide open stands!

Lo, behold the earth is quaking,

Loosed are every prisoner’s bands!


Oh, there’s not a cell so lonely

But a song may echo there;

Oh, there’s not a night so cheerless,

But there’s potency in prayer;

Sing, oh, sing, thou weary pilgrim!

Song will bring thee heavenly peace;

Pray, oh, pray, thou burdened prisoner!

God will give thee sweet release.


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