WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
What of the night? It dark and darker grows;
The very heavens above seem black with woes,
By mighty winds the gathering clouds are hurled,
In awful conflict, round our fallen world. What of the night? The careless ones are lying
In slumber deep, and know not they are dying.
I sound the trumpet in their ears in vain,
Fettered and sunk in darkness they remain. What of the night? The saints their watch are keeping,
But every eye is dim and swollen with weeping;
And every heart is sad—and oft they sigh,
When will the morning star appear on high? And carefully they trim the feeble light
Within their lamps, to guide them through the night,
But oh! it wavereth much through doubts and fears,
And oft is well-nigh quenched by floods of tears. What of the night? Each to the other say,
When shall we see the dawn of endless day,
Our spirits tremble: can it be the Lord
Will prove at last unfaithful to his word?" What of the night? Hush! on the breeze is borne
A still small voice to comfort those who mourn;
Though yet I tarry, dry the tearful eye—
Lift up your heads, redemption draweth nigh. Quickly I come. Oh! droop not thus forlorn:
Look up and smile—joy cometh with the morn;
Quickly I come to banish all your fears,
And God's own hand shall wipe away your tears." And then I heard the voice of earnest prayer;
Sweetly it sounded on the midnight air:
Even so, Lord Jesus, come and chase our gloom;
The night is dark—oh! take thy children home."