The Coming of Christ

Behold! the ancient darkness breaksThat o'er the nations lay,And morn with purple banner wakes,Bright herald of the day;Hush'd are hoarse Sinai's thunders dread,Descending Angels sing,And crush'd Judea lifts the head,To hail her promis'd king.

The harp of prophecy, so longBy sacred impulse fir'd,Hath breath'd its last entrancing song,And with the seer expired.Symbol and type, whose linked chainAt Eden's bower began,No more in dim and shadowy strainAnnounce the truth to man.

Messiah comes! what throne of stateShall win his glorious sway?Throw wide Oh Earth! thy loftiest gateTo give the highest way:

Yet not to men of royal birth,Not to the sons of fame,Not in the sceptred pomp of earth,The meek Redeemer came.

No.—Turn to Nazareth's noteless bound,Turn to the lowliest trainWho slowly o'er that thronging groundPress on with pilgrim pain,Turn to the manger, scorn'd and lone,By humblest inmates trod,And in devotion's deepest toneRevere the Son of God.