The Day Is Gently Sinking to a Close
– Christopher Wordsworth, 1863
The day is gently sinking to a close,Fainter and yet more faint the sunlight glows:O Brightness of Thy Father’s glory,Thou eternal Light of light, be with us now:Where Thou art present darkness cannot be;Midnight is glorious noon, O Lord, with Thee.Our changeful lives are ebbing to an end;Onward to darkness and to death we tend;O Conqueror of the grave, be Thou our Guide;Be Thou our Light in death’s dark eventide;Then in our mortal hour will be no gloom,No sting in death, no terror in the tomb.Thou, Who in darkness walking didst appearUpon the waves, and Thy disciples cheer,Come, Lord, in lonesome days, when storms assail,And earthly hopes and human succors fail;When all is dark, may we behold Thee nigh,And hear Thy voice, “Fear not, for it is I.”The weary world is moldering to decay,Its glories wane, its pageants fade away:In that last sunset, when the stars shall fall,May we arise, awakened by Thy call,With Thee, O Lord, forever to abide,In that blest day which has no eventide.Morning Prayer
When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.
Ezek. 18:27
Saturday, November 14, 5:00 A.M.
Cold. The cold awoke her, creeping underneath her blanket, spreading like an ache along her hip. She tried to move, to burrow into some warm space, but the cold was beneath her, and then there was a hard, hot twinge of pain in her shoulders and she had a panicky moment of Where? What? She tried again. She couldn’t move her arms. They were pinned behind her back, her wrists fastened by something sticky and implacable.