The night is far spent,
And the day is at hand,
There are signs in the hea­ven,
And signs on the land,
In the wa­ver­ing earth,
And the drought of the sea—
But He stands and He knocks,
Sinner, near­er to thee.

His night winds but whis­per
Until the day break
To the Bride, for in slum­ber
Her heart is awake:
He must knock at the sleep
Where the re­vel­ers toss
With the dint of the nails
And the shock of the cross.

Look out at the case­ment,
See how He ap­pears,
Still weep­ing for thee
All Geth­se­ma­ne’s tears;
Ere they plait Him earth’s thorns,
In its so­li­tude crowned,
With the drops of the night
And the dew of the ground.

Will you wait? Will you slum­ber
Until He is gone?
Till the beam of the tim­ber
Cry out to the stone?
Till He shout at thy se­pul­cher,
Tear it apart,
And knock at the dust,
Who would speak to thy heart?