SABBATH, DECEMBER 31, 1898.
By E. S. Brooks
How SOLEMN the thought of the year's rapid flight,
Of the close of to-day, and the coming of night!
Of this century's years, one more is the last,
Unwritten, as yet, on the scroll of the past. 'Tis the last of the week, of the month, of the year,
With the close of the century drawing so near!
Soon, soon in the west will the sun pass away;
And then will have vanished the year and the day. How soon will the century, also, be o'er,
But its years that are gone will return nevermore!
Unchanged must remain all the deeds that are done;
Unchanged must remain the careers that are run. There's a voice in the winds that are raging around,
And the trumpet of wo gives a more certain sound.
That voice and that trumpet, O, heed while you hear;
They tell Christ is coming, His kingdom is near! When the nations shall crumble like vessels of clay,
And the reign of the gentiles shall vanish away,
Then the Word, who the seventh day hallowed and blest,
Will give to His church the millennial rest.
E. S. BROOKS.