Classic Poem

Hark! hark! the voice of numbers,
Whose number no man knows,
Awakes the Church's slumbers
And stirs her long repose:
The wail of men and mothers,
The children's piteous cry,
“Come, help us, we are brothers;
Come, help us, ere we die.”

Ah, woe for human nature,
Woe for its deeds of shame,
When man, the ruin'd creature,
Knows not the Maker's Name;
When no true balm assuages
Time's daily load of care,
And o'er the coming ages
Broods infinite despair!

There no baptismal blessing
Rests on the infant brow;
No lips, our God confessing,
Pledge there the holy vow;
No ear enraptured listens
To Jesus' words of grace;
No eye with longing glistens,
To see Him face to face.

Still onward to the river,
Which all must cross, they move,
And meet the dread For-ever
Unweeting “God is love.”
And yet the Sun has risen
Of everlasting day;
The bars of death's dark prison
Our Life has borne away.

Oh, tell them of the story
Which leads to perfect bliss,
Until that world of glory
Spans all the gloom of this;
And in the dawning splendour
The one Name only given
Claims every heart's surrender,
And knits our earth to heaven.