TRIUMPH OF THE REDEEMED.
By G. T. Wilson
CLOTHED in flames of brightest glory,
With a shining angel throng,
Christ will come and end the story
Of His people's cruel wrong.
A thousand years He binds all devils,
Chains them in earth's dark abyss,
Wicked men to earth He levels,
Takes His saints to heaven's bliss. A thousand years in Zion's glory!
Pilgrim's hope from days of old!
'Tis the bright morn of holy story
Christian bards have long foretold.
On the thrones of judgment seated,
Where no "second death" can come;
Satan's forces are defeated;
There the ransomed are at home. Hear the Lamb then sweetly saying,
"Come to supper; sit ye down;
You for this on earth were praying,
My redeemed, My joy, My crown."
O, the rapture of that moment
When we pass the pearly gates!
O, the blessedness of eating,
When the Saviour on us waits! A thousand years in kingly glory,
There no tempting foe to meet;
Saints shall chant redemption's story,
Cast their crowns at Jesus' feet.
A thousand years of courtly brightness,
Jeweled crowns and harps of gold,
Robes that shine with dazzling whiteness;
Youthful beauty ne'er grows old. Come, thou blest millennial morning!
Pilgrims wait and watch for thee;
Shake, O Lord, the earth with warning;
Come and set Thy people free;
Free from all their pain and sorrow—
Free them from oppression's hand;
End sin's night, dawn holy morrow!
Give us soon the heavenly land! G. T. WILSON.
Hobart, Tasmania.