THE NIGHT COMETH by Emma C. Dowd

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 8, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 10.

"THE NIGHT COMETH."

By Emma C. Dowd

BY EMMA C. DOWD.

An angel passed through a busy street; His step was swift, and his smile was sweet, And he sped in the path of the rising sun, Saying softly, "The day is begun, 'The night cometh.'"

He met a child, who laughed and ran, Chasing the butterflies with her fan, A circlet of lilies, white and fair, Crowning her wavy yellow hair; And, stooping, he asked, in a gentle tone, "Do you love the Master, my little one?" She raised her beautiful, sunlit head,— "I am one of his little lambs," she said; "Then do," said the angel, "as he commands; Your work is ready, it waits your hands." The child made answer, "I'll not forget; I shall do my work ere the sun has set; But 'tis going to be such a long, long day! It is morning now, and I want to play."

The angel watched her in sad surprise, As she flitted away with the butterflies; And he sped in the path of the rising sun, Whispering soft, "Will the work be done? 'The night cometh.'"

An hour flew by, and the child lay dead, A stain on the beautiful sunlit head, A stain which the lilies could not hide, Though they spread their waxen petals wide; And the weepers heard, in a voice divine, Like the solemn moan of a wind-stirred pine, "The night cometh."

The angel passed through the busy street, And met a man with hurrying feet. "Stay," he cried. "Are you one of those Who love the Master and hate his foes?" "Oh, yes!" he replied. "My name is enrolled In the books of the church. I am safe in the fold."

"Then do," said the angel, "as he commands; Your work is ready, it waits your hands." "Good sir," said the man, "I shall do my work All in good season, I'm never a shirk. Just now I am busy, as you must see, But sometime—yes, sometime—I hope to be free To work for the Master. I'm still in my prime, With life before me,—there's plenty of time."

The angel watched him speeding along, With a troubled brow, through the jostling throng; And he followed the path of the setting sun, Whispering soft, "Will the work be done? 'The night cometh.'"

The years rolled on. Through a city street A man walked slowly, with tottering feet; His form was bent and his face was old, And his heart was as hard as his silver and gold; But he seemed to hear, like a mournful rhyme, "Life is before me, there's plenty of time." And those who were nearest him heard him say: "It is growing dark,—I have lost the day. 'The night cometh.'"

—S. S. Times.