A LAS! isn’t nothing to you who pass by
To see the choice cedars cut down?
Sad tokens of Jehovah’s displeasure,
For on our lands His face doth frown.
Gloomy and dark are these days of decline,
Cold and bare our once favoured lands;
He’s gathering home His brightest jewels
To mansions fair, not made with hands.
Foundation truths false teachers would destroy,
O’er Christ’s sweet field they rudely tread;
To faith’s desire for the heavenly food
They nought supply but stones for bread.
To brethren strange this man of God became,
The truth and the faith he held fast;
His heart yearned in love o’er “the living child,”
He his lot with the faithful cast.
“Destroy it not for the blessing is there;”
The standard he would not pull down,
Zealous for the rights of his gracious Lord,
For his Beloved’s claim and crown.
Thus bravely he went without the camp,
And though earth and hell might oppose,
Yet both combined could not the least o’ercome
His love of truth and Sharon’s Rose.
With thrilling notes out spoke his moving voice
‘Gainst the Church’s sins of deep dark hue;
A heaven-taught steward of gospel truth,
Each a word he gave in season due.
When cast down and faint because of the way,
And the famine and dearth were sore,
The weary soul heard that corn there was still
In abundance in Joseph’s store.
Thy sweet, dove-like voice we shall hear no more,
Endued with an unction so rare,
Chanting the valour of the “pretty sons,”
Thy Lord, the fairest of the fair.
The empty to His fulness bidden were,
Much grace to find in time of need;
‘Mong blessed Jesus’ fragrant pastures green,
He oft the heritage did lead.
The thorns did sharply pierce the lily pure,
The foe pursued the scattered flock;
No shelter was found for the trembling doves
But the clefts of the Smitten Rock.
We blame not the mourners’ sorrow and pain,
Their tender wounds oft bleed anew;
Empty their loved one’s honoured place is now;
And such choice labourers are few.
The blinded world rues not the breach so great,
It scorns the weepers’ hallowed pain;
But thy death is a loss to Church and world,
While thine is everlasting gain.
Methinks the reproach thou didst suffer here,
Does but add a fair lustre bright
To thy measure there of glory and bliss
In yonder blest realms of light.
D. T.