Oh what a hope, blest Lord,
Born of Thy precious Word,
Yea, and for us:
Hope of the pilgrim here,
Fruit of Thy work so dear-
Fruit of Thy cross.

Hope of the weary heart,
Soothing each hurt and smart
On our way home;
Hope which hath spanned the space
'Twixt us and Thy blest face,
Till Thou shalt come.

Hope that no cloud can dim
Nay, for 'tis fixed on Him,
Fixed evermore.
Hope that shines bright and clear,
Yea, brighter e'en this year
Than e'er before.

Hope that looks past the tomb,
E'en to that glorious home
We shall soon share
With Him who died to save,
And through life's journey gave
His tenderest care.

Hope that lights up the gloom
E'en of the darksome tomb.
Hast Thou not said We shall not go before
Those held 'neath death's dark door,
Thy precious dead ?

Nay, they shall first arise,
Fruit of Thy sacrifice ;
Yea, and with us They shall ascend with
Thee, And through eternity
Talk of Thy cross.

Lord, while the nations war
We wait the Morning Star ;
Soon it must shine :
Through the dark deeds of man
Thou workest out Thy plan,
Thy will divine.

High o'er earth's highest scale,
Over each piteous wail,
Hope lifts the heart. In the dark deeds of earth,
Or in its thoughtless mirth
We'd have no part.

Earth's bosom heaves and sighs
With the heart-rending cries
Of woes unsought:Widows and fatherless
Moan in their deep distress –
What hath man wrought!

Oh, turn men's hearts, we pray,
To that approaching day,
Make them to see
That there's no hope but one,
And that in God's blest Son,
Saviour, in Thee.

Satan's deceiving- yea,
Even thine own, to-day.
Open their eyes
To the dishonor done
To God and His dear Son
By these dark lies.

What doth it mean, O Lord ?
We search Thy blessed Word;
To us it seems
Thou art fulfilling fast
What Thou hast said, long past,
What men call dreams.

No "dream" to us, this "hope,"
From which we'll wake to grope
Uncertainly.
We triumph o'er man's taunt:
This hope is all we want,
Till we see Thee.

H. McD