'Twas silence in Thy temple, Lord,
  When slowly through the hallowed air
The spreading cloud of incense soared,
  Charged with the breath of Israel's prayer.

'Twas silence round Thy throne on high,
  When the last wondrous seal unclosed,
And in this portals of the sky
  Thine armies awfully reposed.

And this deep pause, that o'er us now
  Is hovering—comes it not of Thee?
Is it not like a mother's vow
  When, with her darling on her knee,

She weighs and numbers o'er and o'er
  Love's treasure hid in her fond breast,
To cull from that exhaustless store
  The dearest blessing and the best?

And where shall mother's bosom find,
  With all its deep love-learned skill,
A prayer so sweetly to her mind,
  As, in this sacred hour and still,

Is wafted from the white-robed choir,
  Ere yet the pure high-breathed lay,
"Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,"
  Rise floating on its dove-like way.

And when it comes, so deep and clear
  The strain, so soft the melting fall,
It seems not to th' entranced ear
  Less than Thine own heart-cheering call.

Spirit of Christ—Thine earnest given
  That these our prayers are heard, and they,
Who grasp, this hour, the sword of Heaven,
  Shall feel Thee on their weary way.