WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
Watchman, set on Zion's tower,
Tell us of the night,—
Has the tempest spent its power,
And the storm its might?
Seest thou through the gathered haze,
Morning brightly waking,—
While before the rosy rays
Cloud and mist are breaking? Weary christian—child of sorrow,
Brightly dawns the day—
Promise of a glorious morrow,
Beams the rising ray!
Rest thee now, with troubles worn,
Broken, bowed with grief;
Rest thee, for this cloudless morn
Brings thee sweet relief. Glorious Sun! Of light the fountain!
Soon he'll rise on thee,
See his radiance floods the mountain
Bidding darkness flee!
Weep no longer, weary one,
Dry the falling tear,
All thy toil, thy work is done,
And thy rest is near. Ne'er again shall tempest lower,
Or the whirlwind harm,
Thou no more shall feel the power
Of the raging storm:—
Dwelling in the brilliant light
Of that glorious Sun!
Bathing in the splendor bright
Of th' eternal throne!—Sel.