"Till He come,"—O let the words
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"Till He come,"—O let the wordsLinger on the trembling chords;Let the little while betweenIn their golden light be seen;Let us think how heaven and homeLie beyond that—"Till he come."
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When the weary ones we loveTo the silent land remove,Though the earth seems poor and waste,All our life-joy overcast,—Hush! be every murmur dumb;It is only—"Till he come."
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Clouds and conflicts round us press;Would we have one sorrow less?All the sharpness of the cross,All that tells the world is loss,Death, and darkness, and the tomb,Only whisper—"Till he come."