138. Lauds—Saturday

{241}
Aurora jam spargit polum.

THE dawn is sprinkled o'er the sky,
        The day steals softly on;
Its darts are scatter'd far and nigh,
And all that fraudful is, shall fly
        Before the brightening sun;
Spectres of ill, that stalk at will,
        And forms of guilt that fright,
And hideous sin, that ventures in
        Under the cloak of night.

And of our crimes the tale complete,
        Which bows us in Thy sight,
Up to the latest, they shall fleet,
Out-told by our full numbers sweet,
        And melted by the light. {242}

To Father, Son, and Spirit, One,
        Whom we adore and love,
Be given all praise, now and always,
        Here as in Heaven above.

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Newman Reader — Works of John Henry Newman
Copyright 2007 by The National Institute for Newman Studies. All rights reserved.