"Lord, now lettest Thou thy servant depart in peace," sang Eli and, without I hope being blasphemous, I have a milder version of the same sense of deep satisfaction.
For Lo! the moth I have been hoping for more than anything except one of the Clifden Nonpareils which have made a startlingly large number of appearances in these parts this autumn, flew in last night.
|Hope you can see the moth, a bit left of centre|
I shall now go an have my shower, during which I will sing one of my favourite hymns, Penny being a hundred miles away on her Women's Walking Weekend. Here are the words:
Hushed was the evening hymn,
The temple courts were dark;
The lamp was burning dim
Before the sacred ark;
When suddenly a voice divine
Rang through the silence of the shrine.
The old man, meek and mild,
The priest of Israel, slept;
His watch the temple child,
The little Levite, kept;
And what from Eli’s sense was sealed
The Lord to Hannah’s son revealed.
O give me Samuel’s ear,
The open ear, O Lord,
Alive and quick to hear
Each whisper of Thy Word,
Like him to answer at Thy call,
And to obey Thee first of all.
O give me Samuel’s heart,
A lowly heart, that waits
Where in Thy house Thou art,
Or watches at Thy gates;
By day and night, a heart that still
Moves at the breathing of Thy will.
O give me Samuel’s mind,
A sweet unmurm’ring faith,
Obedient and resigned
To Thee in life and death,
That I may read with child like eyes
Truths that are hidden from the wise.
|He's gone all holy this morning|
There's a plinky-plonky version of the tune here if you'd like to rock along. Good last lines, eh? Another more secular moral to this morning's events may be the old proverb: 'Everything comes to him who waits." But I worry about this as a possible invitation to lethargy and prefer Cromwell's typically robust: "We must not wait for the iron to heat but must make it hot by striking."
Much to mull on. The rest of the catch tomorrow after P's joyous return.