They dreamed not of danger,
Those sinners of old
Whom Noah was chosen to warn;
By frequent transgressions
Their hearts had grown cold;
They laughed his entreaties to scorn.
Yet daily he called them:
"Oh come, sinners, come!
Believe, and prepare to embark,
Receive ye the message,
And know there is room
For all who will come to the ark.”
He could not arouse them.
Unheeding they stood
Unmoved by his warning and prayer:
The prophet passed in
From the oncoming flood
And left them to hopeless despair.
The flood-gates were opened,
The deluge came on,
The heavens as midnight grew dark.
Too late! Then they turned—
Every foothold was gone!
They perished in sight of the ark.
Oh sinner, the heralds
Of mercy implore;
They cry like the patriarch, "Come!”
The Ark of Salvation
Is moored to your shore:
Oh, enter while yet there is room!
The storm-cloud of justice
Rolls dark o'er your head,
And when by its fury you're tossed,
Alas! Of your perishing
Souls 'twill be said:
"They heard—they refused—and were lost!”