O God, whose daylight leadeth down
Into the sunless way,
Who with restoring sleep doest crown
The labour of the day!
What I have done, Lord, make it clean
With thy forgiveness dear;
That so today what might have been,
Tomorrow may appear.
And when my thought is all astray,
Yet think thou on in me;
That with the newborn innocent day
My soul rise fresh and free.
Nor let me wander all in vain
Through dreams that mock and flee;
But even in visions of the brain,
Go wandering toward thee.
“THIS world is not to be justified as it is justified by the mechanical optimists; it is not to be justified as the best of all possible worlds. Its merit is not that it is orderly and explicable; its merit is that it is wild and utterly unexplained. Its merit is precisely that none of us could have conceived such a thing, that we should have rejected the bare idea of it as miracle and unreason. It is the best of all impossible worlds.”
~G.K. Chesterton: ‘Charles Dickens,’ Ch. XI— On the Alleged Optimism of Dickens.