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The Last Hour

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D.C. · Feb 23, 1905

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 82, No. 8.

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The Last Hour

By Clara Thwaites

“Little children, it is the last hour.” 1 John 2:18, R. V.
THE sunset burns across the sky; Upon the air its warning cry. The curfew tolls, from tower to tower; O children, ’tis the last, last hour!
The work that centuries might have done Must crowd the hour of setting sun, And through all lands the saving Name Ye must in fervent haste proclaim.
Ere yet the vintage shout begin, O laborers, press in, press in! And fill unto its utmost coasts The vineyard of the Lord of hosts.
It is a vineyard of red wine, Wherein shall purple clusters shine; The branches of his own right hand Shall overspread Immanuel’s land.
The fields are white to harvest. Weep, O tardy workers! as ye reap, For wasted hours that might have won Rich harvests ere the set of sun.
We hear his footsteps on the way! O work while it is called to-day, Constrained by love, endued with power, O children, in this last, last hour!
— Clara Thwaites.