The winds are hushed; the peaceful moon
Looks down on Zion’s hill;
The city sleeps; ’tis night’s calm moon,
And all the streets are still.
How soft, how holy, is the light!
And hark! a sweet, low song,
As gently as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.
Affection’s wish, devotion’s prayer,
Are in that holy strain;
And hope and love and trust are there,
And triumph, won through pain.
’Tis Jesus and his faithful few
That soul-deep hymn who pour;—
O Christ! may we the song renew,
And learn to love thee more.