Poems by Rebekah Smith: Part 26

Almost to the beautiful land!

This be the watchword to cheer thee, When o'er thee dark tempests expand, And dangers and trials are near thee.

Then from this perilous way, Look up to the glory before us, Which with unglimmering ray, Like a bright bow of promise bends o'er us.

Only a few more seasons Of watching and weariness here, Ere the day-star arises, Ere the day-dawn appear.

Almost to the beautiful land!

Where the pilgrim may rest him forever, And bask on the golden strand Of the crystal and flowing river.

Where the fadeless crown awaiteth, For the cross which here we bore; And the glory ne'er abateth, And sorrow is known no more.

Only a few more efforts To toil up the rugged hight, Ere we reach the glorious summit, And faith is lost in sight.

Almost to the beautiful land!

Shall we grow weary then? Never!

Lift up the faltering hand, Strengthen the feeble endeavor.

Only a few more mornings Allotted to laboring here, Only a few more warnings To fall on the sinner's ear; Only a few more conflicts To wage in the struggle of life, Then the sweet victory cometh, That endeth the toilsome strife.

Almost to the beautiful land!

Shall we lose courage now? Never!

Bold in the conflict stand, Faint not in spirit nor waver.

Woe now to him who shall suffer Earth's tinsel to blind his eyes; Woe unto him who fainteth, In sight of the glorious prize.

Up! for the moments hasten, And the King is himself at hand: Nerve thee with this glad watchword-- Almost to the beautiful land!

"They Shall be Mine."

Mal. 3:16, 17.

They shall be mine in the coming day, When I shall gather my chosen ones; When the Lord shall rise to the spoil and prey, And the year of Zion's redemption comes.

They shall be mine! the chosen few Who dare to honor my holy name, Who yield their hearts to their Maker, true, And bear his cross nor heed the shame, And turn not back for the scoffers' boasts-- They shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts.

They shall be mine in the fearful hour When heaven shall part as a shattered scroll; And earth shall reel from Jehovah's power And death shall seize on the sinner's soul; Then will the Lord to his servants bring A crown for the cross which here they bore; And loud their shouts of joy will ring; And then shall be heard and feared no more The critic's sneer, and the scoffer's boasts, When saints shall be owned by the Lord of hosts.

They shall be mine in whom alone Is power to save and to destroy; And as one spares his only son, So will I spare my people's joy.

When the treach'rous hopes of the wicked flee, And pestilence wastes the sons of men, My servants true shall find, in me, A refuge and a shelter then; And skeptics all shall cease their boasts In terror for the Lord of hosts.

Then who would shrink from the lowly band, Who make their peace with the King of kings?

He holds the worlds in his mighty hand, He rules o'er all created things; His arm alone can bear us up When earth is drinking her dregs of woe; His mercy alone is ground for hope, His chosen only will safety know-- Ah! then who cares for the scoffer's boasts, If he may be owned by the Lord of hosts.

In that dread day, when the proud and great For rocks and mountains shall vainly call, And kings and n.o.bles, in high estate, Shall be robed alike in a funeral pall; When the Judge appears in the parting sky, And the angel-reapers from glory come To bear the good to their realms on high, And all thy saints are gathered home, From the isles afar, and the distant coasts-- Let me be thine, O Lord of hosts!

The Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

Tune--Tyrolese Evening Hymn.

Come, come, come, Come to the marriage feast Prepared for saints above; The Lord now bids his guests To the banquet-room of love.

Oh! why should the tinseled toys Of this earth allure us here, While pure, immortal joys, Wait us in a happier sphere.

Chorus--Come, come, come, Come to the marriage feast, Prepared for saints above; The Lord now bids his guests To the banquet-room of love.

Come, come, come, Soon will the day be o'er, And hope's last hour be gone; And mercy's voice no more The day of grace prolong.

Life yet we may secure; And the warning note is given, Make now your t.i.tle sure To a lasting home in Heaven.

Come, come, come, The weary pilgrim there "Lays staff and sandals down"

A conqueror's palm to bear, And an angel's glittering crown.

Then all the scoffs we've borne, While this gloomy vale we've trod, "To lasting joys shall turn,"

In the city of our G.o.d.

The Lord Will Come.

Tell me the Lord will come, That he will soon appear; This world is not my home, I have no treasure here.

The hope of joys that soon shall be Is what alone can comfort me.

Tell me the Lord will come-- I love the cheering sound; There's hope and joy and peace In that sweet promise found; For then our ills, whate'er our lot, Will all be gone, and all forgot.

Tell me the Lord will come, 'Tis music in my ears; I would not longer roam In this dark vale of tears, Where tempests gather o'er our way, And darkness hides the light of day.

Tell me the Lord will come; In that victorious hour, The dark and silent tomb Must yield its gloomy power; For he shall call his slumbering dead, Forever from their dusty bed.

Tell me the Lord will come, He whom our souls do love, To take his exiles home To their own land above: In those bright mansions of the blest, Is where alone our souls can rest.

Ay, soon the Lord will come!

We are not left forlorn, Without some cheering tone, Some promise of the morn; Some token from our absent Friend, That soon our pilgrimage will end.

Ay, soon the Lord will come!

He will not suffer long The triumph of our foes, The reign of sin and wrong.

With courage then still breast the storm, For G.o.d has spoken and will perform.

Yea, soon the Lord will come, And glad deliverance bring, And crown with lasting joy All who have honored him.

When heaven and earth abashed shall flee The glories of his majesty.

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