Weeping And Wailing Needs Must Be. (Hymn)

"Blessed are ye that weep now."

Weeping and wailing needs must be
    When Love His name shall disavow,
When christen'd men His wrath shall dree,
Who mercy scorn'd in this their day;
But what? He turns not yet away,
    Not yet - not now.

Let me not, waken'd after sleep,
    Behold a Judge with lowering brow,
The world must weep, and I must weep
Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree,
Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency.
    Let it be NOW.

Let us have weeping NOW for sin,
    And not us only; let Thy tears
Avail the tears of many to win;
Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou;
We that have sinn'd many long years,
    Let us weep NOW;

And then, waked up, behold Thy face,
    Who did forgive us. See Thy brow -
Beautiful - learn Thy love and grace.
Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears,
And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres,
    Them that weep now.

Jean Ingelow

Jean Ingelow was an English poet and novelist known for her popular stories and poems in the 19th century. Her work, including 'Mopsa the Fairy', earned her recognition during her lifetime. She was also involved in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Ingelow published several poetry collections, with her first in 1863, which was well-received and cemented her reputation as a poet.

Jean Ingelow

Defton Wood.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Honors. - Part I.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Failure.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

The Long White Seam.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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A Morn Of Guilt, An Hour Of Doom. (Hymn)

"There was darkness."

A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom -
    Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom -
    Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
    Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings - tremblings in the dark,
    In heaven, and earth, and hell.

Groping, stumbling up the way,
    They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do - they say,
    "Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
    That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
    And we will believe!"

Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
    Cloven rocks down hurl'd;
God's love itself doth seem to fail
    The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
    Eithe...

Jean Ingelow

Katie, Aged Five Years.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
    And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
    With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
    And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
    On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
    In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing,
    They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

Jean Ingelow

Seven Times Five. Widowhood.

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan
Before I am well awake;
"Let me bleed! O let me alone,
Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head:
O sleepless God, forever keep,
Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair!
I have not wished it to mourn with me -
Comfort is not there.

O what anear but golden brooms,
And a waste of reedy rills!
O what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore -
How bitter it is to part!
O to meet thee, my love, once more!
O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see!
O that an echo might wake
And waft one note of thy psalm to me

Jean Ingelow

O Night Of Nights! (Hymn)

"Let us now go even unto Bethlehem."

O Night of nights! O night
    Desired of man so long!
The ancient heavens fled forth in light
    To sing thee thy new song;
And shooting down the steep,
    To shepherd folk of old,
An angel, while they watch'd their sheep,
    Set foot beside the fold.

Lo! while as like to die
    Of that keen light he shed,
They look'd on his pure majesty,
    Amazed, and sore bestead;
Lo! while with words of cheer
    He bade their trembling cease,
The flocks of God swept sweetly near,
    And sang to them of peace.

All on the hillside grass
    That fulgent radiance fell,
So close those innocents did pass,
    Their words were heard right well;
Among the sheep, their wings
    Som...

Jean Ingelow

Mary Of Magdala. (Hymn)

"While it was yet dark."

Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set,
Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet,
Fared in the dark - woe-wan and bent was she,
'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she;
And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore,
Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more.

Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone;
Light was there within, out to the dark it shone;
With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright,
The which she beholding fell for sore affright.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee;
And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said,
And nought ...

Jean Ingelow

Jesus, The Lamb Of God. (Hymn)

"Art Thou He that should come?"

Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless.
Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness;
Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul,
Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole.

Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste;
Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste;
Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs -
Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers.

John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son,
Cast into loathèd thrall, his use and mission done;
John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea;
Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?"

Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole...

Jean Ingelow