The Church has wait­ed long
Her ab­sent Lord to see;
And still in lone­li­ness she waits,
A friend­less stran­ger she.

Age aft­er age has gone,
Sun aft­er sun has set,
And still, in weeds of wi­dow­hood,
She weeps, a mourn­er yet.

Saint aft­er saint on earth
Has lived, and loved, and died;
And as they left us one by one,
We laid them side by side.

We laid them down to sleep,
But not in hope for­lorn—
We laid them but to rip­en there
Till the last glo­ri­ous morn.

The ser­pent’s brood in­crease,
The pow­ers of hell grow bold,
The con­flict thick­ens, faith is low,
And love is wax­ing cold.

How long, O Lord our God,
Holy and true and good,
Wilt Thou not judge Thy suf­fer­ing church,
Her sighs and tears and blood?

We long to hear Thy voice,
To see Thee face to face,
To share Thy crown and glo­ry then,
As now we share Thy grace.

Should not the lov­ing bride
The ab­sent Bride­groom mourn?
Should she not wear the weeds of grief
Until her Lord re­turn?

The whole cre­ation groans,
And waits to hear that voice,
That shall re­store her come­li­ness,
And make her wastes re­joice.

Come, Lord, and wipe away
The curse, the sin, the stain,
And make this blight­ed world of ours
Thine own fair world again.