On the death of William M. Smith.
Dark is the hour when Death prevails,
And triumphs o'er the just--
A painful void within the breast,
When dust goes back to dust;
And solemn is the pall, the bier,
That bears them from our presence here.
But there's a bright, a glorious hope,
That scatters death's dark gloom;
It cheers the saddened spirits up,
It gilds the Christian's tomb;
It brings the resurrection near,
When those we love shall re-appear.
Then mourn we not as those whose hopes
With fleeting life depart;
For we have heard a voice from Heaven,
To every stricken heart:
Blest are the dead, forever blest,
Who from henceforth in Jesus rest.
With kind regard the Lord beholds
His saints when called to die;
And precious in his holy sight
Their sacred dust shall lie,
Till all these storms of life are o'er,
And they shall rise to die no more.
A few more days and we shall meet
The loved, whose toil is o'er,
And plant with joy our bounding feet
On Canaan's radiant shore;
Where, free from all earth's cares and fears,
We'll part no more through endless years.
The New Year, 1871.
Why hail we thus each new-born year,
With voice of joy and scenes of mirth?
What room for gay and festive cheer,
While woe and darkness span the earth?
While sin and suffering, pain and death, still throw,
Their baleful shadow over all below?
Earth trembles at the cannon's roar,
War's murderous visage scours the plain;
Its fairest spots are drenched with gore,
Its fruitful fields are piled with slain.
And what are all these slow-revolving years,
But funeral pageants of distress and tears?
Contagions spread their wings of pall,
Fierce tempests rage with blasting breath,
And earthquake throes, engulfing all,
Make short and sure the way to death.
No peace, no safety, no enduring cheer,
To him who builds his hopes and treasures here.
Yet glad we hail each New Year's morn;
For from the great high throne of Heaven
A royal fiat forth has gone,
A glorious word to earth is given:
Behold, says He who looks creation through,
Where sin has marred my works, I make anew.
New earth to smile before his face,
New heavens in crystal beauty dressed,
New years to run a guiltless race,
New joys for each immortal breast,
New flowers upspringing from the sinless sod,
New waters sparkling from the throne of God.
New bodies for these feeble forms,
New life from e'en the moldering tomb,
New skies unrent by raging storms,
New beauty, new unfading bloom,
New scenes the eternal era to begin,
Of peace for war, of righteousness for sin.
Speed then away, O tardy years!
Fly quickly, hours that intervene!
Groaning we wait the time when tears
Shall be but things that once have been.
Dawn, thou blest morn, so long in promise given,
The glorious glad New Year of God and Heaven.
Almost to the Beautiful Land.
Almost to the beautiful land!
This be the watchword to cheer thee,
When o'er thee dark tempests expand,
And dangers and trials are near thee.
Then from this perilous way,
Look up to the glory before us,
Which with unglimmering ray,
Like a bright bow of promise bends o'er us.
Only a few more seasons
Of watching and weariness here,
Ere the day-star arises,
Ere the day-dawn appear.
Almost to the beautiful land!
Where the pilgrim may rest him forever,
And bask on the golden strand
Of the crystal and flowing river.
Where the fadeless crown awaiteth,
For the cross which here we bore;
And the glory ne'er abateth,
And sorrow is known no more.
Only a few more efforts
To toil up the rugged hight,
Ere we reach the glorious summit,
And faith is lost in sight.
Almost to the beautiful land!
Shall we grow weary then? Never!
Lift up the faltering hand,
Strengthen the feeble endeavor.
Only a few more mornings
Allotted to laboring here,
Only a few more warnings
To fall on the sinner's ear;
Only a few more conflicts
To wage in the struggle of life,
Then the sweet victory cometh,
That endeth the toilsome strife.
Almost to the beautiful land!
Shall we lose courage now? Never!
Bold in the conflict stand,
Faint not in spirit nor waver.
Woe now to him who shall suffer
Earth's tinsel to blind his eyes;
Woe unto him who fainteth,
In sight of the glorious prize.
Up! for the moments hasten,
And the King is himself at hand:
Nerve thee with this glad watchword--
Almost to the beautiful land!
"They Shall be Mine."
Mal. 3:16, 17.
They shall be mine in the coming day,
When I shall gather my chosen ones;
When the Lord shall rise to the spoil and prey,
And the year of Zion's redemption comes.
They shall be mine! the chosen few
Who dare to honor my holy name,
Who yield their hearts to their Maker, true,
And bear his cross nor heed the shame,
And turn not back for the scoffers' boasts--
They shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts.
They shall be mine in the fearful hour
When heaven shall part as a shattered scroll;
And earth shall reel from Jehovah's power
And death shall seize on the sinner's soul;
Then will the Lord to his servants bring
A crown for the cross which here they bore;
And loud their shouts of joy will ring;
And then shall be heard and feared no more
The critic's sneer, and the scoffer's boasts,
When saints shall be owned by the Lord of hosts.
They shall be mine in whom alone
Is power to save and to destroy;
And as one spares his only son,
So will I spare my people's joy.
When the treach'rous hopes of the wicked flee,
And pestilence wastes the sons of men,
My servants true shall find, in me,
A refuge and a shelter then;
And skeptics all shall cease their boasts
In terror for the Lord of hosts.
Then who would shrink from the lowly band,
Who make their peace with the King of kings?
He holds the worlds in his mighty hand,
He rules o'er all created things;
His arm alone can bear us up
When earth is drinking her dregs of woe;
His mercy alone is ground for hope,
His chosen only will safety know--
Ah! then who cares for the scoffer's boasts,
If he may be owned by the Lord of hosts.
In that dread day, when the proud and great
For rocks and mountains shall vainly call,
And kings and nobles, in high estate,
Shall be robed alike in a funeral pall;
When the Judge appears in the parting sky,
And the angel-reapers from glory come
To bear the good to their realms on high,
And all thy saints are gathered home,
From the isles afar, and the distant coasts--
Let me be thine, O Lord of hosts!
The Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
Tune--Tyrolese Evening Hymn.
Come, come, come,
Come to the marriage feast
Prepared for saints above;
The Lord now bids his guests
To the banquet-room of love.
Oh! why should the tinseled toys
Of this earth allure us here,
While pure, immortal joys,
Wait us in a happier sphere.
Chorus--Come, come, come,
Come to the marriage feast,
Prepared for saints above;
The Lord now bids his guests
To the banquet-room of love.
Come, come, come,
Soon will the day be o'er,
And hope's last hour be gone;
And mercy's voice no more
The day of grace prolong.
Life yet we may secure;
And the warning note is given,
Make now your title sure
To a lasting home in Heaven.
Come, come, come,
The weary pilgrim there
"Lays staff and sandals down"
A conqueror's palm to bear,
And an angel's glittering crown.
Then all the scoffs we've borne,
While this gloomy vale we've trod,
"To lasting joys shall turn,"
In the city of our God.
The Lord Will Come.
Tell me the Lord will come,
That he will soon appear;
This world is not my home,
I have no treasure here.
The hope of joys that soon shall be
Is what alone can comfort me.
Tell me the Lord will come--
I love the cheering sound;
There's hope and joy and peace
In that sweet promise found;
For then our ills, whate'er our lot,
Will all be gone, and all forgot.
Tell me the Lord will come,
'Tis music in my ears;
I would not longer roam
In this dark vale of tears,
Where tempests gather o'er our way,
And darkness hides the light of day.
Tell me the Lord will come;
In that victorious hour,
The dark and silent tomb
Must yield its gloomy power;
For he shall call his slumbering dead,
Forever from their dusty bed.
Tell me the Lord will come,
He whom our souls do love,
To take his exiles home
To their own land above:
In those bright mansions of the blest,
Is where alone our souls can rest.
Ay, soon the Lord will come!
We are not left forlorn,
Without some cheering tone,
Some promise of the morn;
Some token from our absent Friend,
That soon our pilgrimage will end.
Ay, soon the Lord will come!
He will not suffer long
The triumph of our foes,
The reign of sin and wrong.
With courage then still breast the storm,
For God has spoken and will perform.
Yea, soon the Lord will come,
And glad deliverance bring,
And crown with lasting joy
All who have honored him.
When heaven and earth abashed shall flee
The glories of his majesty.