“He is not here. I will come again.”
Mourning, she misses Him who is not here;
Joyous she waits until her Lord appear,
Watching through widowed hours till night be past,
Ready to raise the cry, “He comes at last.”
Oh, blood-bought Church, unto thy Lord be true;
Wait for thine absent One the midnight through!
Glory awaits thee, glory all divine,
When thou shalt in His bright effulgence shine.
His constant care shall shield thy waiting hours,
His love thy solace be when tempest lowers;
Himself thine all-then that bright morning tide,
When He shall come to greet thee as His bride.
Mourn that so few His love, His beauty know;
Mourn o’er the many triumphs of the foe;
Mourn o’er each act that gives Him cause to chide;
Mourn when thou dost not in His love abide.
Rejoice, O Church! for perfect shalt thou be;
Rejoice, for ‘tis His hand that mouldeth thee;
Rejoice in love as changeless as divine;
Rejoice that thou art His, that He is thine.
Exultant Church, raise now thy song of praise,
And triumph with thy Lord in all His ways;
Absent or present, ever unto thee
His constant love, His deep desire, shall be.
Time hastens on, the midnight hour is past,
Even now the rays of coming morn are cast;
Thy widowed weeping shall be changed ere long
To morning praises and to bridal song.
Expectant Church, still wait, still watching be,
Until the joy be thine thy Lord to see;
His hours of absence soon shall all be o’er,
And thou with Him shalt be for evermore.
O’er night’s dark sorrow broods the Dove of peace,
But wakening morn shall bid all sorrows cease;
And thy glad heart shall raise its joyous lay,
While Morning Star leads on to perfect day.
When not a cloud shall dim thy wondering sight,
Nor shall His glory be for thee too bright,
Made meet to share it with Him on His throne,
And claimed by Him as “His beloved,” “His own.”
M. A. B.