The bur­den of Du­mah! A voice out of Seir
Cries, Tell me, O watch­man! if morn­ing be near.
It com­eth—it com­eth! Bright gleams in the sky
Proclaiming the pro­mised re­demp­tion is nigh!

Soon, soon shall cre­ation’s long mid­night be done,
The rest of eter­ni­ty’s Sab­bath be­gun;
When, cast­ing her week­day soiled gar­ments away,
She stands fresh ap­par­eled in ves­tures of day.

Oh! hast­en, Lord! hast­en this hal­cy­on time,
When earth shall ex­ult in the bliss of her prime,
The sons of the morn­ing re­sum­ing their strain
O’er Ed­en, re­stored to her glor­ies again.

The morn­ing it com­eth! but al­so the night!
Lo! vi­sions of ven­geance loom dark on the sight!
The me­te­or of hope, with its bright beam­ing ray,
To scorn­ers of grace is fast dim­ming away.

Ere earth shall be girt with its red fie­ry flood,
Or moon shall dis­solve in her ocean of blood,
Ere stars in their courses shall trem­ble and fall,
The wick­ed in vain to the mount­ains shall call.

Great God! in Thy mer­cy look down from ab­ove,
And touch ev­ery heart with Thy scep­ter of love,
Lest, tears un­avail­ing, we come to de­plore
That of­fers of grace can be ten­dered no more!