The Night Is at Hand by M. E. Yergin

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 8, 1912

The Night Is at Hand

By M. E. Yergin

M. E. YERGIN

The evening lamps are lighting; The sun is going down; The stretching shade along the glade, Is blending farm and town. The muffled tread of armies Sounds through the gathering gloom; The world, astir, perceives the whirr Of a coming stroke of doom.

Each throne is thrilled with trembling; Each crown sits insecure; Each royal heart, with troubled start, Feels fear and terror sure. The last white fields of harvest, Evangel reapers glean; Their dots of light in the edge of night Will soon no more be seen.

For the dread of all the ages Creeps out within the shade; And each skulking king swift hastes to bring The fear his hands have made; While the Saviour of the ages Comes o’er the furrowed hills, With his angel throng sent out along Where earth’s raging battle kills.

With praise, and shouts of triumph, Come hosts from ancient graves; And from dungeon gloom, and prison room, And from under the ocean waves. The living rise to their Saviour, With the last sheaves they could glean; They light no more earth’s death-dark shore, They are stars in eternity’s sheen.

Forever and forever, As long as the ages roll, Our God will give to all who live, The desire of their inmost soul; And joy shall be transcendent With the souls whom they beckoned home With their dots of light in the edge of night, When the night of this earth had come.

Chicago, Ill.