Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/76

76 Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse, Foils the red comet in its flaming speed, And aims to read the secrets of its God, Yet thou a son of clay, art privileg'd To make thy Saviour's image brighter still, In this majestic soul. Give God the praise That thou art counted worthy,—and lay down Thy lip in dust.—Bethink thee of its loss,— For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on Till the last hour of grace and penitence Is meted out, ah! what would it avail Though the whole world with all its pomp and power And plumage, were its own? what were its gain When the brief hour-glass of this life shall fail And leave remorse, no grave,—despair, no hope? Up, blow thy trumpet sound the loud alarm To those who sleep in Zion.—Boldly warn To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head Age after age of misery hath roll'd Who from their prison-house look up and see Heaven's golden gate,—and to its watchmen cry "What of the night?" while the dread answer falls With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths: "Eternity!" Should one of these lost souls Amid its tossings utter forth thy name, As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit, Thou Man of God! would there not be a burst Of tears in Heaven?