At break of day the Christ draws near

1
At break of day the Christ draws near,
where meadow sweet in winds appear;
the curlew’s cry along the fen
reminds us hope is born again.
Through hawthorn bloom and dew‑lit air,
He breathes His peace beyond despair.

2
As Peter preached in wind‑swept air:
“God freed His Son from death’s despair.”
So skylarks rise where shadows fade,
and gorse burns gold on hill and glade.
No grave could hold the Holy One;
the dawn proclaims what God has done.

3
Preserve us, Lord, as Psalmists prayed;
our refuge strong, our guiding shade.
Like salmon seeking ancient ways,
You lead us through our numbered days.
Your path of life before us lies,
a steady flame beneath our skies.

4
Blessed be God, whose mercy wide
rebirths our hope and turns the tide.
Though we have not yet seen Your face,
we trust the wounds that speak of grace.
And joy, like deer on mountain’s crest,
leaps free where hearts in You find rest.

5
So send us forth, O Christ who came
through shuttered doors and spoke our name.
Through blackthorn lanes and ash‑lined fields,
let every place the gospel yield:
the risen Lord walks Ireland still,
and calls us each to share His will.

Hymn information

First line: At break of day, the Christ draws near
Text: Michael McFarland Campbell 
Metre: 88 88 88
Tune: Melita
Theme: Second Sunday of Easter 

Reflection

Writing this hymn for the Second Sunday of Easter felt like standing at the edge of a quiet bog at dawn, watching the world come into focus one careful detail at a time. Scripture opens differently for me when I can anchor it in the textures and rhythms of the land—the curlew’s call, the brightness of gorse, the steady return of salmon to familiar waters. These are not decorations; they are ways my mind understands truth. I need the world to be tangible, patterned, and honest if I’m to enter it fully.

The readings for this Sunday—Peter’s bold proclamation, the Psalmist’s trust, the living hope of the epistle, and the locked‑room tenderness of John’s gospel—all speak of a God who meets people exactly where they are. Not where they are expected to be. Not where others assume they should be. Where they actually are.

That matters to me.

When I write, I move slowly, listening for the shape beneath the words. The risen Christ in John 20 doesn’t burst in with noise; He breathes peace into a room thick with fear. That quietness resonates deeply. It tells me that resurrection is not always a shout—sometimes it is a presence that stands beside you until your heartbeat steadies.

Placing the hymn in the Irish landscape helped me express that kind of nearness. The meadow-sweet, the hawthorn, the deer on the ridge—they carry a kind of truth I can trust. They let me hold the scriptures in a way that feels natural to how my mind works: through pattern, image, and the gentle repetition of things that endure.

In the end, the hymn became a way of saying:
Christ walks the world as I experience it—textured, sensory, and full of quiet signals—and still speaks peace into it.

And that is good news worth singing.

Copyright

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. 
Permission granted for local church or parish use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction.

Written recently and shared here as part of the NeuroDivine hymn collection.