Reginald Heber (1783 – 1826)
English bishop, now remembered chiefly as a hymn-writer.
Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still.
Though every great prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.
When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.
Beneath our feet and o'er our head
Is equal warning given:
Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven!
I see them on their winding way,
About their ranks the moonbeams play.
Before, beside us, and above
The firefly lights his lamp of love.
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone.
Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee:
Holy, Holy, Holy! Merciful and Mighty!
God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity.
From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand.
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain.
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid.
Star of the east the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
Remember that every guilty compliance with the humors of the world, every sinful indulgence of our own passions, is laying up cares and fears for the hour of darkness; and that the remembrance of ill-spent time will strew our sick-bed with thorns, and rack our sinking spirits with despair.
No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.
Majestic silence!
Eternity has no gray hairs! The flowers fade, the heart withers, man grows old and dies, the world lies down in the sepulchre of ages, but time writes no wrinkles on the brow of Eternity.
Failed the bright promise of your early day?
Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright soe’er,
Still fluctuates o’er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as ’t is fair.
The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood red banner streams afar:
Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train.
We deny our Lord whenever, like Demas, we through love of this present world forsake the course of duty which Christ has plainly pointed out to us.
By cool Siloam's shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!