ADVENT.Clearas the silver callOf Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,Calling her children from all walks and ways,The church’s accents fall.With sweet and solemn soundWhere winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleamThey make their joyful round—Joyful, and yet how grave;Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,Who cometh, strong to save.As, at a mother’s feet,The children of one household sit to learnSome sweet domestic lesson, each in turnHis portion to repeat,So, at this holy tide,Calling us round her for exalted talk,From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,She bids us turn asideAnd list while she relatesThe blessed story—old, yet ever new—Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,Whose dawn she celebrates.Now the rapt prophets singTheir anthems in each bowed and listening ear;Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hearDown the glad centuries ring;Till, fired with joy as theyWho spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,Our glad hosannas pay.Yet list! Another noteBlends with the holy song our Mother sings,And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,Clear, trumpet-like doth float.He comes to judge the world;To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,While into flames of fire for evermoreThe worthless chaff is hurled.Lord! we would put asideThe gauds and baubles of this mortal life—Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,The tawdry garb of pride—And pray, in Christ’s dear name,Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;That at his coming we may stand arightAnd fear no sudden shame.
ADVENT.Clearas the silver callOf Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,Calling her children from all walks and ways,The church’s accents fall.With sweet and solemn soundWhere winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleamThey make their joyful round—Joyful, and yet how grave;Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,Who cometh, strong to save.As, at a mother’s feet,The children of one household sit to learnSome sweet domestic lesson, each in turnHis portion to repeat,So, at this holy tide,Calling us round her for exalted talk,From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,She bids us turn asideAnd list while she relatesThe blessed story—old, yet ever new—Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,Whose dawn she celebrates.Now the rapt prophets singTheir anthems in each bowed and listening ear;Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hearDown the glad centuries ring;Till, fired with joy as theyWho spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,Our glad hosannas pay.Yet list! Another noteBlends with the holy song our Mother sings,And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,Clear, trumpet-like doth float.He comes to judge the world;To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,While into flames of fire for evermoreThe worthless chaff is hurled.Lord! we would put asideThe gauds and baubles of this mortal life—Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,The tawdry garb of pride—And pray, in Christ’s dear name,Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;That at his coming we may stand arightAnd fear no sudden shame.
Clearas the silver callOf Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,Calling her children from all walks and ways,The church’s accents fall.With sweet and solemn soundWhere winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleamThey make their joyful round—Joyful, and yet how grave;Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,Who cometh, strong to save.As, at a mother’s feet,The children of one household sit to learnSome sweet domestic lesson, each in turnHis portion to repeat,So, at this holy tide,Calling us round her for exalted talk,From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,She bids us turn asideAnd list while she relatesThe blessed story—old, yet ever new—Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,Whose dawn she celebrates.Now the rapt prophets singTheir anthems in each bowed and listening ear;Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hearDown the glad centuries ring;Till, fired with joy as theyWho spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,Our glad hosannas pay.Yet list! Another noteBlends with the holy song our Mother sings,And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,Clear, trumpet-like doth float.He comes to judge the world;To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,While into flames of fire for evermoreThe worthless chaff is hurled.Lord! we would put asideThe gauds and baubles of this mortal life—Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,The tawdry garb of pride—And pray, in Christ’s dear name,Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;That at his coming we may stand arightAnd fear no sudden shame.
Clearas the silver callOf Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,Calling her children from all walks and ways,The church’s accents fall.With sweet and solemn soundWhere winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleamThey make their joyful round—Joyful, and yet how grave;Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,Who cometh, strong to save.As, at a mother’s feet,The children of one household sit to learnSome sweet domestic lesson, each in turnHis portion to repeat,So, at this holy tide,Calling us round her for exalted talk,From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,She bids us turn asideAnd list while she relatesThe blessed story—old, yet ever new—Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,Whose dawn she celebrates.Now the rapt prophets singTheir anthems in each bowed and listening ear;Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hearDown the glad centuries ring;Till, fired with joy as theyWho spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,Our glad hosannas pay.Yet list! Another noteBlends with the holy song our Mother sings,And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,Clear, trumpet-like doth float.He comes to judge the world;To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,While into flames of fire for evermoreThe worthless chaff is hurled.Lord! we would put asideThe gauds and baubles of this mortal life—Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,The tawdry garb of pride—And pray, in Christ’s dear name,Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;That at his coming we may stand arightAnd fear no sudden shame.
Clearas the silver callOf Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,Calling her children from all walks and ways,The church’s accents fall.
Clearas the silver call
Of Israel’s trumpets on her holy days,
Calling her children from all walks and ways,
The church’s accents fall.
With sweet and solemn soundWhere winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleamThey make their joyful round—
With sweet and solemn sound
Where winter’s ice imprisons lake and stream,
Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleam
They make their joyful round—
Joyful, and yet how grave;Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,Who cometh, strong to save.
Joyful, and yet how grave;
Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,
And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,
Who cometh, strong to save.
As, at a mother’s feet,The children of one household sit to learnSome sweet domestic lesson, each in turnHis portion to repeat,
As, at a mother’s feet,
The children of one household sit to learn
Some sweet domestic lesson, each in turn
His portion to repeat,
So, at this holy tide,Calling us round her for exalted talk,From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,She bids us turn aside
So, at this holy tide,
Calling us round her for exalted talk,
From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,
She bids us turn aside
And list while she relatesThe blessed story—old, yet ever new—Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,Whose dawn she celebrates.
And list while she relates
The blessed story—old, yet ever new—
Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,
Whose dawn she celebrates.
Now the rapt prophets singTheir anthems in each bowed and listening ear;Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hearDown the glad centuries ring;
Now the rapt prophets sing
Their anthems in each bowed and listening ear;
Now the bold Baptist’s clarion voice we hear
Down the glad centuries ring;
Till, fired with joy as theyWho spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,Our glad hosannas pay.
Till, fired with joy as they
Who spread their garments ’neath his precious feet,
With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,
Our glad hosannas pay.
Yet list! Another noteBlends with the holy song our Mother sings,And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,Clear, trumpet-like doth float.
Yet list! Another note
Blends with the holy song our Mother sings,
And, high above the harp’s exultant strings,
Clear, trumpet-like doth float.
He comes to judge the world;To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,While into flames of fire for evermoreThe worthless chaff is hurled.
He comes to judge the world;
To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,
While into flames of fire for evermore
The worthless chaff is hurled.
Lord! we would put asideThe gauds and baubles of this mortal life—Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,The tawdry garb of pride—
Lord! we would put aside
The gauds and baubles of this mortal life—
Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,
The tawdry garb of pride—
And pray, in Christ’s dear name,Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;That at his coming we may stand arightAnd fear no sudden shame.
And pray, in Christ’s dear name,
Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;
That at his coming we may stand aright
And fear no sudden shame.