The Gathering by L. D. Santee

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 23, 1911

The Gathering

By L. D. Santee

L. D. SANTEE

“Gather my saints together unto me.” Ps. 50:5.

THEY are coming, the blood-washed millions, From the north, the south, and the east; And the west yields up its treasures, As guests for the marriage feast,— From the wash of the inland rivers, From the shifting sands of the sea, At the voice of the great Archangel Their ashes shall gathered be.

From many a grave neglected, Where the weeds grow rank above; From tombs, by their friends protected, Where roses were strewn by love; From lonely graves on the mountain, And resting-place by the sea; From mounds beneath the willow. The saints shall gathered be.

Whether but lately buried Or sleepers for many years, They will be by the angels carried To a region unknown to tears. They will rise from their dusty pillows, Triumphant over death; They will hail the joyful summons, With love’s unquestioning faith.

Their song of blest redemption The angels can never sing; And harps will throb with their praises To the Prophet, Priest, and King. All heaven will thrill with music From those who will never die, While their shouts shall render vocal The gardens of the sky.

When doubts the way would shadow, And the “home of soul” looks dim, We think how the Lord shall gather The loved ones unto him; We think how his hand shall banish All grief and tears and pain, And our faith in the coming kingdom Grows strong and bright again.

And while the world around us Is toiling in paths of pain, With vain and foolish fancies, And hopes that are worse than vain, We look for the coming glory In the slowly lighting sky, And we say, “Our King” is coming; We shall see him by and by.

Moline, Ill.