He comes! in meek and low­ly hu­man form,
Unheralded by daz­zling pomp and noise,
Not in the fire, the earth­quake, or the storm,
But with the ac­cents of the still small voice.

He comes! to preach the Gos­pel to the poor,
Franchise the slave, and break the bonds­man’s chain,
To wrench the bars from off the dun­geon-door,
And set the pin­ing cap­tive free again.

He comes! the Mes­sen­ger to brok­en hearts;
Affliction of its poig­nant sting dis­arms;
To him that hath no help­er help im­parts;
The lit­tle child smiles fear­less in His arms.

He comes! to give the grop­ing blind their sight,
To wipe the tear from off the mourn­er’s eye,
To cheer the or­phan’s dark­ened home with light,
And soothe the wi­dow in her ago­ny.

He comes! to res­cue from the guilt of sin,
And from its ty­rant power to grant re­lease;
To hush the rage of de­mon storms with­in,
And leave His own best le­ga­cy of Peace.

He comes! to stop the roll of con­quer­ing drum,
Unyoke the steeds from Bat­tle’s ir­on car,
To strike the fe­vered lips of can­non dumb,
And hang in si­lent halls the trump of war.

He comes! O Earth, give wel­come to His voice!
He comes! Thy tribes to pay Him hom­age rise!
He comes! to make thine arid wastes re­joice,
And blos­som like a se­cond pa­ra­dise.

John Ross Macduff
The Gates of Praise, 1876