Tears for the Lost by Henry C. McCook

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D.C. · Feb 9, 1905

Tears for the Lost

By Henry C. McCook

'Tis well to weep when wasted time has flown, And bounteous years have left no worthy gain, To mourn that spring looked back on fields unsown, Or autumn on ungathered sheaves of grain. And passing bells are beating on the ear With only this refrain: "A lost, lost year!"

'Tis well to weep when fathers are no more; When from the prophet's lips the prayer has died; When, overcome at last, the chieftain yields, And owns him victor whom his life defied; When voiceless is the bard's enrapturing tongue, And death has hushed the inspired poet's song.

But tears are vain, save as they wash away The earthliness that doth our spirits stain, The dust that blurs our vision of to-day And duties that to-day brings in its train. If at the old low level life remain, Nor rise to loftier heights, our tears are vain!

Who mourns the fathers dead, the prophets slain, Yet lives a fruitless life, he mourns in vain.

He weepeth well who learns from grief to live As lived the saints who'll see the Saviour's face. The worthiest honors that the sons can give Their hero fathers, is to fill their place. The passing bell has ceased its mournful toll: Hark! on the throbbing air rings loud and clear A rising bell! Awaken, O my soul, And occupy for God the new-born year.

—Henry C. McCook.