Author: Bishop Bickersteth
“Till he come!” O let the words
Linger on the trembling chords;
Let the little while between
In their golden light be seen;
Let us think how heav’n and home
Lie beyond that “Till he come.”
When the weary ones we love
Enter on their rest above,
Seems the earth so poor and vast,
All our life joy overcast?
Hush, be ev’ry murmur dumb:
It is only till he come.
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.”
See, the feast of love is spread,
Drink the wine, and break the bread:
Sweet memorials, till the Lord
Call us round his heav’nly board;
Some from earth, from glory some,
Severed only till he come.