NOW is salvation, God’s free gift to sinners,
Thus pleads the Spirit with a ruined
world,
Today receive the Saviour crowned
with glory,
In patience waiting, on the Father’s Throne.
“Not yet,” the world makes answer lightly smiling,
Not yet, there’s pleasure still to find and taste;
When found, perchance, well listen to Thy warning,
Till then we pray Thee trouble not our peace.
“Late, late!” the Spirit cries, still pleading,
The day of grace is wearing fast away,
Late, late, yet not too late. O souls take warning,
The blood still speaks and wrath is still restrained.
“Tomorrow” we will listen to Thy counsel,
Will give attention to our souls’ deep need.
But as they speak, upborne on Time’s spread pinions,
They’re swept into the vast Eternity.
“Too late, too late!” O awful cry, what means it?
Whence comes the word that strikes our startled ear?
From hell’s dark mouth proceeds this tale of woe,
Of souls beyond Christ’s reach for evermore.
“Too late, too late!” again the cry is heard,
From the White Throne this time the wail proceeds,
A world of lost ones standing there unite
To tell the history of their fatal error.
“Forever lost!” out from the lake of judgment
The wild cry rings from tempest-driven souls;
Then from the shore, beat by the waves eternal,
Comes back the echo, “Lost for evermore.”
W. H. S.