I hear the mountain wind, but see it not;
Its mournful sigh startles my mind's repose;
I listen; but it passes quick as thought;
I know not whence it comes, nor where it goes.
'Tis thus with those, who of the Spirit are born,
A change comes o'er them; how they cannot say.
They wake, as from the darkness wakes the morn,
And mental night is changed to mental day.
'Tis God's mysterious work. 'Tis He can find,
Deep searching, and 'tis He can touch
The deep and hidden spring that rules the mind,
And change its tendencies, and make it such,
Redeemed, restored, as it was not before.
We know that 'tis God's work; but we can know no more.