YE kings, ye great ones of the earth,
Frail beings of a fleeting hour,
What reck ye of the grace, the worth,
Of Christ, and His eternal power?
What know ye of that race of kings
Whose peerless glory rises far—
Above the flight of angels' wings,
Or heaven's remotest, brightest star?
No name had they, no place, till He,
The Christ, the King of kings had shed
His life-blood on the accursed tree,
Then rose victorious from the dead.
Till He, beyond the cross, the grave,
Enthroned on high their living Head,
Himself to them His nature gave,
On them th' Eternal Spirit shed.
Then, then the Church, that chosen race,
Born from above, on earth unknown,
In spirit found their destined place
Beside Him on the Father's throne:
There to abide that corning hour
Of blessedness and peace, when He
Shall as a conqueror claim His power,
Heir of a kingdom yet to be.
Nor only He: we, heirs with Him,
That crown of glory yet shall share,
'Whose dazzling beauty naught can dim,
Nor the cold hand of time impair.
Yes, Lord, in that celestial throng
Ourselves, our very selves, we see,
Fruit of thy sufferings, who ere long
Shall reign in life and light with Thee.
Sweet blessed hope! but why, O why,
These lingering years, this long delay;
While love, with ever wakeful eye,
Is watching for the break of day!
Hear then the cry, the ceaseless cry,
Of weary spirits far from home:
Oh take us to our rest on high,
Come for us now—Lord Jesus, come!