THE DYING YEAR.
Hark! there comes at midnight hour
Sound like funeral knell,
Chaining us with magic power,
Whispering, “Farewell.”
’Tis the dying year’s last sigh
Mingling with the storm;
Closes now his hollow eye,
Sinks his feeble form.
Still at midnight, dark and lone,
Mournful echoes ring,
Murmuring in solemn tone,
“Time is on the wing.”
O God, where art thou? where thy mighty throne?
Why is thy face unseen, and thou unknown?—
Source and support of all, why is thy form
Hidden from mortal eyes? when every storm
That sweeps athwart the dark and angry sky,
When all the bright and burning orbs on high,
When the deep sea that in its fury roars,
When all its beautiful and fertile shores,
When every river, hill and lowly dale,
When every mountain, tree, and flowery vale,
When every bird, and e’en the springing
Whisper aloud, "There is, there is a God!"
These are thy works; but where, O God, art thou?
Pavilioned in deep darkness, is thy brow
Hid in dark folds, ne’er to be drawn apart?
Will mortal never see thee as thou art?
Yes; when the wheels of time have ceased to run,
When yon bright orb its glorious, task has done,
Then will the veil be rent which once concealed
The throne of God, the mighty unrevealed;
Then human eyes will view his dwelling-place,
And saints, as angels, see him face to face.
Lo in the east the Star begins to rise.
The glorious centre for admiring eyes
Of men and angels—Herald of the morn
So long foretold, the Prince of peace is born!
O’er all the earth let hallelujahs ring,
Let all the earth a fitting tribute bring—
With gold and silver, frankincense and myrrh.
Come from the south, or, clad in robes of fur,
Come from the frozen north, from east and west,
Prince, priest and warrior, earth’s great ones
and best,
Come to the manger, humbly there lay down
The sword, the mitre and the jeweled crown.
The rich and noble celebrate the day
With pomp and show; but who are these? make way
Ye sons of wealth! ye rulers stand aside!
This is no place, this is no hour for pride;
The sick, the lame, the Wind, the deaf, the dumb,
The sinful, poor and sorrowful may come;
And even I can bring my little store—
A weary, sin-sick heart—I’ve nothing
more:
The world may frown, the lofty may despise,
The gift is precious in my Saviour’s eyes.
To him as sacred are the tears that fall
In lowly cottage as in princely hall,—
No rich, no poor his loving bosom knows,
He cares for all and pities all their woes,
In the same censer offers up their prayers,
And on his heart their names alike he bears.
