And the streets at last are still,
Where the noisy crowd, the day long,
Did the air with shoutings fill ;
And the weary, way-worn travellers,
Preaching Jesus through the land,
Are in deepest dungeon darkness,
By the magistrates' command.
2 Many stripes to them are given,
Many curses on them cast ;
Many bolts and bars surround them ;
In the stocks their feet are fast ;
While the cruel Roman jailer,
All securely sleeping on,
Little dreams the mighty wonders
Of the morrow's early dawn.
3 Hark the sighing of the prisoners !
Hear their moanings loud and long !
No : again, and louder, clearer,
'Tis the voice of prayer and song !
See, the prison walls are shaking,
And the door wide open stands !
Lo, behold the earth is quaking,
Loosed are every prisoner's bands !
4 Oh, there's not a cell so lonely
But a song may echo there ;
Oh, there's not a night so cheerless,
But there's potency in prayer;
Sing, oh, sing, thou weary pilgrim !
Song will bring thee heavenly peace;
Pray, oh, pray, thou burdened prisoner !
God will give thee sweet release.