Classic Poem

CLEAR as the silver call
Of Israel's trumpets on her holy days,
Beckoning her children from all walks and ways,
The Church's accents fall.

With sweet and solemn sound,
Where winter's ice imprisons lake and stream,
Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleam,
They make their joyful round;

Joyful, and yet how grave!
Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,
And watch for Him, our Sacrifice and Priest,
Who cometh strong to save.

As at a mother's feet
The children of one household sit to learn
Some sweet domestic lesson, each in turn
His portion to repeat;

So, at this holy tide,
Calling us round her for exalted talk,
From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk
She bids us turn aside—

And list, while she relates
The blessed story, old yet ever new,
Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the true,
Whose dawn she celebrates.

Now the rapt prophets sing
Their anthems in each bowed and listening ear;
Now the bold Baptist's clarion-voice we hear
Down the glad centuries ring;

Till, fired with joy, as they
Who spread their garments 'neath His precious feet,
With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,
Our glad hosannas pay.

Yet list! Another note
Blends with the holy song our Mother sings,
And high above the harp's exultant strings,
Clear, trumpet-like, doth float:

He comes to judge the world;
To garner up His wheat, to purge His floor,
While into flames of fire forevermore
The worthless chaff is hurled.

Lord, we would put aside
The gauds and baubles of this mortal life,
Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,
The tawdry garb of pride;

And pray, in Christ's dear name,
Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light,
That at His coming we may stand aright,
And fear no sudden shame.