THE MORNING COMET by Mary Martin

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 5, 1871

THE MORNING COMET.

By Mary Martin

The day with untold record now is closing; The last bright ray of sunlight has just gone; The twilight shadows gathering dark and somber, Tell that the long, drear night is coming on. O Saviour, lead me, for how oft I stumble, Though thou hast made the way all right for me, And said I ever must be very humble If I would walk the narrow way with thee.

Saviour, the road is rough and darker growing, O, let me nestle nearer to thy side, And cleanse me with the precious blood that's flowing, So freely from the body crucified. The first watch, and the second, all are ending— The last preceding day-dawn is now here; The danger's great, for all around is tending To bring discouragement, and doubt, and fear.

But, oh! I'll keep so close to Him who, leading, Takes of the narrow way the thorniest part; He hears and answers all my earnest pleading, And will with his own blood cleanse my poor heart. The first faint streaks foretell the coming morning, Though all the way with danger is beset; Yet still he holds my hand, and every warning, I'll ask for strength to help, that I may not forget.

And when it bursts in glory and in splendor, The faithful ones will have their rich rewards; Oh! what account shall I then have to render, To Him who comes to reign, the Lord of lords? How many times I've wept o'er sins committed; I must forsake as well as to confess; And if I faithful prove, I'll stand acquitted, And all that heart could wish I shall possess.

There's nothing here that's in itself worth having, Were there not life beyond the dreary tomb; Nothing that ever could repay the loving, Were there no hope of an eternal home. How often here my lips unopened quiver, With music that they have no power to speak, But utterance will be given in His forever, The better new-earth land that I so fondly seek.

Unrealized hopes and unfulfilled desires, Around us withered lie on every side; But in the land to which our faith aspires, 'Twill not be heard, 'mid weeping, that "they died." My Father, help me that my lamp be burning, That all the work thou'st left me be well done; And may I ever long for the returning Of Him who leads me, even thy dear Son.

Mary Martin.

Blakeville, N. H.