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Hymn for the Lighting of the Lamps

Blest Lord, Creator of the glowing light

Translator: R. Martin Pope; Author: Aurelius Clemens Prudentius
Published in 1 hymnal

Full Text

Blest Lord, Creator of the glowing light,
At Whose behest the hours successive move,
The sun has set: black darkness broods above:
Christ! light Thy faithful through the coming night.

Thy courts are lit with stars unnumberèd,
And in the cloudless vault the pale moon rides;
Yet Thou dost bid us seek the fire that hides
Till swift we strike it from its flinty bed.

So man may learn that in Christ's body came
The hidden hope of light to mortals given:
He is the Rock--'tis His own word--that riven
Sends forth to all our race the eternal flame.

From lamps that brim with rich and fragrant oil,
Or torches dry this heaven-sent fire we feed;
Or make us rushlights from the flowering reed
And wax, whereon the bees have spent their toil.

Bright glows the light, whether the resin thick
Of pine-brand flares, or waxen tapers burn
With melting radiance, or the hollow urn
Yields its stored sweetness to the thirsty wick.

Beneath the might of fire, in slow decay
The scented tears of glowing nectar fall;
Lower and lower droops the candle tall
And ever dwindling weeps itself away.

So by Thy gifts, great Father, hearth and hall
Are all ablaze with points of twinkling light
That vie with daylight spent; and vanquished Night
Rends, as she flies away, her sable pall.

Who knoweth not that from high Heaven first came
Our light, from God Himself the rushing fire?
For Moses erst, amid the prickly brier,
Saw God made manifest in lambent flame.

Ah, happy he! deemed worthy face to face
To see heaven's Lord within that sacred brake;
Bidden the sandals from his feet to take,
Nor with his shoon defile that holy place.

The mighty children of the chosen name,
Saved by the merits of their sires, and free
After long years of savage tyranny,
Through the drear desert followed still that flame.

Striking their camp beneath the silent night
Where'er they went, to lead their darkling way,
The cloud of glory lent its guiding ray
And shone more splendid than the noonday light.

But, mad with jealous fury, Egypt's king
Calls his great host to battle for their lord:
Swiftly the cohorts gather at his word,
And down the mail-clad lines the clarions ring.

Girding their trusty swords the warriors go
To fill the ranks; hoarse bugles rend the air;
These seize their massy javelins, these prepare
The death-winged arrow and the Cretan bow.

The footmen throng in close battalions pressed;
The chariots thunder; to the saddle spring
The riders of the Nile, as forth they fling
Egypt's proud banner with the serpent crest.

And now, forgetful of the bondage past,
Thy children, tortured by the desert heat,
Drag to the Red Sea's brink their weary feet,
And on its sandy margin rest at last.

See! with their forsworn king the savage foe
Draws nigh: the threatening squadrons nearer ride;
But ever onward urged the intrepid guide
And through the waves bade Israel fearless go.

Before that steadfast march the billows fall,
Then raise on either hand their crystal mass,
While through the sundered deep Thy people pass
And ocean guards them with a liquid wall.

But, mad with baffled rage, the dusky horde
Of Egypt, by their impious despot led,
Athirst the hated Hebrews' blood to shed
Pursued, all reckless of the o'er-arching flood.

Swift as the wind the royal squadrons ride,
But swifter yet the crystal barriers break,
The waves exultantly their bounds forsake
And roll together in a roaring tide.

'Mid steeds and chariots and drifting mail
The drownèd lords of Egypt found a grave
With all their swart retainers 'neath the wave;
And in their haughty courts the mourners wail.

What tongue, O Christ, Thy glories can unfold?
Thine was the arm, outstretched in wrath, that made
The stricken land of Pharaoh, sore afraid,
Bow down before Thy minister of old.

Thy pathless deep did at the voice restrain
Its surging billows, till with Thee for guide
Thy host passed scathless, and the refluent tide
Swept down the wicked to the engulfing main.

At Thy command the desert, parched and dry,
Breaks into laughing rills, and water clear
Wells from the smitten rock Thy flock to cheer
And quench their thirst beneath that brazen sky.

Then Marah's bitterness grew passing sweet,
Touched by the mystic tree; so by the grace
Of Thine own Tree, O Christ, our sinful race
Regains its lost hopes at Thy piercèd feet.

Faster than icy hail the manna falls,
Like snow down drifting from a wintry sky;
The feast is set: they heap the tables high
With that rich food from Thy celestial halls.

Fresh blow the breezes from the distant shore
And bear a fluttering cloud that hides the light,
Till the frail pinions, faltering in their flight,
Sink in the wilderness to rise no more.

How great the love of God's own Son, that shed
Such wondrous bounty on His chosen race!
And still to us He proffers in His grace
The mystic Feast, wherewith our souls are fed.

Through the world's raging sea He bids us come,
And 'twixt the sundered billows guides our path,
Till, spent and wearied with the ocean's wrath,
He calls His storm-tossed saints to Heaven and home.

There in His paradise red roses blow,
With golden daffodils and lilies pale
And gentle violets, and down the vale
The murmuring rivulets for ever flow.

Sweet balsams, welling from the slender tree,
And precious spices fill the fragrant air,
And, hiding by the stream, that blossom rare
Whose leaves the river hurries to the sea.

There the blest souls with one accord unite
To hymn in dulcet song their Saviour's praise,
And as the chanting quire their voices raise
They tread with shining feet the lilies bright.

Yea, e'en the spirits of the lost, that dwell
Where the black stream of sullen Acheron flows,
Rest on that holy night when Christ arose,
And for a while 'tis holiday in Hell.

No sun from ocean rising drives away
Their darkness, with his flaming shafts far-hurled,
But from the cross of Christ o'er that wan world
There streams the radiance of a new-born day.

The sulphurous floods with lessened fury glow,
The aching limbs find respite from their pain,
While, in glad freedom from the galling chain,
The tortured ghosts a short-lived solace know.

In holy gladness let this night be sped,
As here we gather, Lord, to watch and pray;
To Thee with one consent our vows we pay
And on Thy altar set the sacred Bread.

From pendent chains the lamps of crystal blaze;
By fragrant oil sustained the clear flame glows
With strength undimmed, and through the darkness throws
High o'er the fretted roof a golden haze,

As 'twere Heaven's starry floor our wondering eye
Beheld, wherein the Bears their light display,
Where Phosphor heralds the approach of day
And Hesper's radiance floods the evening sky.

Meet is the gift we offer here to Thee,
Father of all, as falls the dewy night;
Thine own most precious gift we bring--the light
Whereby mankind Thy other bounties see.

Thou art the Light indeed; on our dull eyes
And on our inmost souls Thy rays are poured;
To Thee we light our lamps: receive them, Lord,
Filled with the oil of peace and sacrifice.

O hear us, Father, through Thine only Son,
Our Lord and Saviour, by Whose love bequeathed
The Paraclete upon our hearts has breathed,
With Him and Thee through endless ages one.

Through Christ Thy Kingdom shall for ever be,
Thy grace, might, wisdom, glory ever shine,
As in the Triune majesty benign
He reigns for all eternity with Thee.

Translator: R. Martin Pope

Pope, Robert Martin, M.A., s. of Rev. H. J. Pope, D.D. (ex-President of the Wesleyan Conference), was born in London, Jan. 4, 1865, and was educated at Manchester Grammar School, Victoria Univ., Manchester, and St. John's Coll., Cambridge (B.A. 1887, M.A. 1896). He entered the Wesleyan Ministry in 1888 and is now (1906) stationed at Oxford. He was joint author of The Hymns of Prudentius, translated by R. Martin Pope and R. F. Davis, 1905, being a verse translation of the Cathemerinon of Prudentius with notes. Two of Mr. Pope's versions are in The English Hymnal, 1906, Nos. 54, 55. He also contributed articles on Latin Hymnody, with some original translations, to the London Quarterly Review, July 1905 and Jan. 1906, with a supplemental note… Go to person page >

Author: Aurelius Clemens Prudentius

Marcus Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, "The Christian Pindar" was born in northern Spain, a magistrate whose religious convictions came late in life. His subsequent sacred poems were literary and personal, not, like those of St. Ambrose, designed for singing. Selections from them soon entered the Mozarabic rite, however, and have since remained exquisite treasures of the Western churches. His Cathemerinon liber, Peristephanon, and Psychomachia were among the most widely read books of the Middle Ages. A concordance to his works was published by the Medieval Academy of America in 1932. There is a considerable literature on his works. --The Hymnal 1940 Companion… Go to person page >

Text Information

First Line: Blest Lord, Creator of the glowing light
Title: Hymn for the Lighting of the Lamps
Latin Title: Inventor rutili, dux bone, luminis
Translator: R. Martin Pope
Author: Aurelius Clemens Prudentius
Language: English
Publication Date: 1905
Copyright: This text in in the public domain in the United States because it was published before 1923.



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