A spell is on my spirit
And I cannot, cannot write,
All the teeming thoughts of glory
That crowd my soul tonight.
They come in quick succession,
Like the phantoms in a dream;
And they surge in shadowy billows,
Like the mist upon a stream.
Oh! had I but the language,
I would give these visions birth;
I would shadow their glorious meaning,
And their untold, hidden worth.
They were raised by wild thanksgiving,
For a blessed answered prayer;
And their fleeting, changing beauty,
Held my spirit breathless there.
I had pleaded, oh, how earnest
For one precious, precious boon;
For one gift to cheer this bosom,
That was desolate so soon.
Now I know my prayer is answered,
And my soul would fain adore,
Him whose promise is forever,
And is faithful evermore.