"Evensong" - Amy Carmichael

I love Amy Carmichael's poetry. The richness of expression coupled with the profundity and striking beauty of what she describes is almost unrivaled. Suffering for the sake and glory of Christ is never in vain, and much good came from her experiences of suffering, including many poems and songs. Her poem, Evensong, has breathtaking beauty and meaning.

The world is still. Sunset and moonlight meeting

Lay long, soft shadows on the dusty road;

The sheep are folded, not a lamb is bleating.

Fold me, O God.

The feverish hours have cooled, and ceased the wrestling

For place and power; hushed is the last loud word;

Only a mother calls her wayward nestling,

"Come, little bird."

Never a stir but 'tis Thy hand that settles

Tired flowers' affairs and piles a starry heap

Of night lights on the jasmine. Touch my petals;

Put me to sleep.

Only a handful of words to set and maintain an unmistakeable scene. The sun sets in the west as the moon rises in the east, and you can see both in the sky at once. Think summer, when the breeze is lazy, luxurious, and a perfect warm. The feverish hours have cooled; a welcome cool from the burning heat of day. Though the shadows have lengthened, all the sheep are in the fold, contentedly hushed by the care and presence of the shepherd. What follows then is her entreaty to the Good Shepherd to do the same. "Fold me, O God."

The bustling world winds down, the wheel slows, and the wrestling for place and power ceases. "Hushed is the last loud word." The only fitting sound still heard is the keening of a mother bird for her young one to return to the nest.

And it is the hand of the Lord that calms His creation; and "never a stir," because the hand of the One who upholds the universe by the word of His power is a hand of unspeakable gentleness. He "settles tired flowers' affairs," stills their endless bobbing and swaying, touches their petals and steadies them. He "piles a starry heap of night lights on the jasmine."

Can you see it? Lovely white blossoms imbued with that heaven-sweet, heady perfume, fresh with night's dew and crowned with the reflected light of countless stars? I could weep for such beauty. And comes again the prayer: no demand, only the quiet plea of the trusting heart, nestled in the promise of the Savior, "You are of more value than many sparrows."

"Fold me, O God; touch my petals, put me to sleep."

And He does.