They say there is a hollow, safe and still,
A point of coolness and repose
Within the centre of a flame, where life might
Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous
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
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 unredeem`ed 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 usward, thoughts of peace
That stoop in 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 won-
derful, most strange!
“For I am poor and needy, yet
The Lord Himself, Jehovah, thinketh upon me!”
–Frances Ridley Havergal from UNDER HIS SHADOW