LONG has the world, the Master's rule disowning, Hating his presence and his holy sway, ‘Cried, “Where is now the promise of his coming, And where the signs of the long-promised day?” But still above the scoff, and taunt, and laughter, The still small voice ariseth, “Watch and pray;” And still to cheer the hours of lonely waiting, “Behold, I come,” I hear the Master say. It may be that the night will yet grow darker, It may be that the storms are not yet spent; It may be that the times will wax more evil, Earth braving heaven and scorning to repent. It may be that the church's eye shall weary, That hope, so long deferred, at last shall faint, That dark delay the buoyant heart may sadden, And shake the faith of many a weary saint. Still as we hear the Master's daily saying— “Behold, I come; awake, arise, prepare!” For but a little, then there sounds the summons, “Ascend, my saints, to meet me in the air!” Then end at once our weary days of watching; Cometh the vision and the vernal day, Cometh the Master to the waiting household; ’Tis sunlight bursts, the shadows flee away. Error and darkness hide their heads forever, Truth, life, and righteousness make up our morn; Earth shall at last arise in holier splendor Than when at first in perfect beauty born.