Classic Poem

Hark, hark! the advent cry again:
The angels sing His birth,
“Glory to God, goodwill to men,
And peace on earth.”

He comes; and eager listeners throng
The lowly path He trod;
For peace is ever on His tongue,—
The peace of God.

See, His frail bark the waters fill:
Yet why that faithless dread?
Before His mighty “Peace, be still,”
The storm is fled.

A weeping sinner dares to touch
And bathe His feet with tears:
And “Go in peace: thou lovest much,”
Is all she hears.

His hour is come: sad bosoms heave
With bodings unexpress'd.
Peace—grief itself forgets to grieve
At His bequest.

O never, never, gentle Dove,
Let Thy soft pleadings cease,
Until we bask in light and love
And perfect peace.