OUR DAYS ARE FAR SPENT.
By Mary E. Guilford
Our days are far spent; the night is at hand,
When mercy, sweet mercy, no longer will plead.
The last note of warning now sounds through the land,
But alas! oh, alas! how few will give heed.
They scorn God's commandments, nor heed his reproof;
Christ's offers of mercy they spurn with contempt.
All listless and careless, they turn from the truth;
Their hearts are on fashion and folly intent. Our days are far spent; the night is at hand;
That night when no man can his labor perform.
Soon a terrible famine will spread o'er the land,
A famine more fearful than tempest or storm.
Their vats may o'erflow with the choicest of wine;
Their garners be filled with the best earth affords;
Yet famishing still, they'll in anguish repine,
They'll hunger and thirst for the word of the Lord. Our days are far spent; the night is at hand,
Which will close like a pall on a perishing world;
And a wail of wild anguish shall sweep o'er the land,
As the death-dealing weapons upon it are hurled.
Oh! how fearful the doom, how sad will it be,
Of those who now scorn and deridingly mock:
Who can fathom their cry of dread agony?
“Fall on us, ye mountains! O, hide us, ye rocks”? Our days are far spent; the night is at hand;
O lukewarm professor, awake out of sleep;
O sinners, how long will ye carelessly stand?
Though justice now slumbers, ere long it will sweep
With bolts of destruction o'er land and o'er sea,
Till earth shall be soaked with the blood of the slain.
O wake thee! arouse thee! to Jesus now flee,
Haste, haste, for the moments are few that remain.