'Tis the evening of time. 'Tis the Passover night
Of a world that dreams not of its loss;
And the lintels of souls that are girded for flight
Must be sealed with the blood of the cross.
Oh, look you, and see—is that blood on the door
Of your heart, where the Crucified dwells?
For, echoing o'er from eternity's shore
Comes the call of the vesper bells;
And a feast has been spread in the mansions above,
That our Saviour has gone to prepare;
And He's waiting for you to respond to His love,
And partake of the banquet up there;
While the fruit of the vine, by each garlanded plate
Of the feast, all in readiness tells;
And the eve has grown late—from each beautiful gate
Comes the call of the vesper bells.
'Tis the twilight of time. Through the gloaming years
Comes the wail of earth's mourning and woe.
To that home that shall know neither sorrow nor tears,
O wanderer, will you not go?
From the highways and lanes, now the rich and the poor
To His banquet the Master compels.
Ere He closes the door of His mercy, once more
Comes the call of the vesper bells.
