p. 86 | SABBATH MUSINGS by E. S. Lane

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 29, 1858

SABBATH MUSINGS.

By E. S. Lane

There's sunshine on the hills this morn. The green And dewy leaves upon a thousand stems, Are trembling lightly in the morning breeze; The joyous birds are singing o'er our heads, And flowers, gay flowers, are blooming at our feet, The world around us, too, untiring strives, In fond pursuits of pleasures which the world Can never, never give. Their fond pursuits— Schemes of reform, inventions, love of ease, And ardent hopes of that good, coming time, Can never lengthen time one single hour. On every hand the world seems not to know Its own approaching doom: unconscious of That dreadful storm of wrath which soon shall turn The garden and the fruitful field, and all Men's boasted conquest in the line of art, O'er nature's stubborn way, into one sad, One mingled mass of desolation wild. Why are the world unmindful of their fate? And why behold! not where they stand just now? Because of truth despised, rejected, set At naught. God's truth is trampled under foot; The Saviour's coming scoffed at, and by some Denied; therefore God leaves them to their fate. And yet, methinks, among the busy crowd, Still running to and fro with hasty step, Increasing knowledge with untiring mind, Pursuing this and that great worldly scheme, On which the public mind seems always bent, Sometimes a few are led to think, to think Of earth's dark history, present, future, past; Yet hardly dare to think, for with the thought Come dark forebodings of a future hour, And scenes of blood, with mighty empires fallen, Dark revolutions, garments rolled in blood; And tottering thrones beneath the tyrant's feet, All this a prelude to that glorious time. That good time coming of which poets sing, They dare believe; but not to usher in

That time of trouble such as never was. Meanwhile time's lingering sands are falling fast; Each moment shortening intervening space, Until the last, deep fraught with good or ill To each, shall surely come. O dreadful day! O solemn, awful hour, approaching fast! While God in mercy and long-suffering still, Sends forth a mighty angel, with loud voice, On silent wing through heaven; the third and last, Last proclamation to this fallen world. "If any man shall worship beast or image, Receive his mark, in forehead or in hand, The same shall drink of God's unmingled wrath. And he shall drink it to its very dregs. Fear God, keep his commandments, and the faith Of his dear Son, and wait for him from heaven: Here is the patience of the saints. Thus he May flee the storm of wrath, brimstone and fire, In sight of holy angels and the Lamb." Thus God invites ere mercy's door shall close. Who will not heed the angel's warning voice, And find a shelter in that dreadful day? Then be prepared to stand on Zion's mount, With harps amid that holy, happy band, To chant the praises of our glorious King For ever evermore! E. S. Lane.

E. Genoa, N. Y., July 3d, 1858.