(Ps. 145:3.)

How vast, how great, O Lord, Thy work-
Its greatness who can comprehend?
To glorify Thy Father here
Thou didst from joy-filled courts descend.
God's will by Thee was fully done,
Thou holy, blest, eternal Son.

Thy life on earth was loneliness,
Thy death, a death of shame and woe,
Now through Thy great redemptive work
God's richest, fullest blessings flow
To vile, unworthy sons of men-
O love supreme-beyond our ken!

Now seated on Thy Father's throne
As great High Priest Thou pleadest there,
For those who tread the desert path
That leads to mansions bright and fair.
Thy priestly work maintains Thine own
While traveling through sin's danger zone.

But when Thy priestly session ends,
Thy hand shall close salvation's door;
Then Thou wilt call thy pilgrims home
To dwell with Thee for evermore.
Oh wondrous work-the tomb despoiled,
For living saints grim death is foiled!

Then to the scene of Thy contempt
(Where mortals mantled Thee with shame)
Thou shalt with all Thy saints return,
Thy kingdom and Thy throne to claim.
Earth's chains and shackles then shall fall;
Sin shall no more this globe enthrall.

No brow shall wear a crown but Thine;
No hand but Thine a scepter hold;
Thou, Thou earth's only Potentate,
Whose glory shall all lands behold;
Thine empire limits shall extend
To all the earth, till time shall end.

The thousand years of promised peace
Are but the blest and budding dawn
Of Thy prophetic reign of bliss,
Which lasts while boundless years roll on.
Thy kingdom boundaries stretch afar,
Where shines the sun, and moon, and star.

Frail puppets of a passing hour,
Who proudly sit on thrones of dust,
Earth's banished King is coming back-
His world, His kingdom, to adjust.
Your crowns shall fade, your thrones shall fall,
For He MUST REIGN supreme o'er all. (1 Cor. 15:25)

The oath and fiat sealed with blood
Have issued from God's flaming throne;
His word can not by demon hordes
Or wrathful men be overthrown.
God has declared, on Zion's hill, (Psa. 2:6)
His blessed Son earth's throne shall fill.

Then robe yourselves in sackcloth now
Before the hills and mountains quake,
Before the moon is draped in blood,
And forth His awful judgments break.
In this calm day of pleading grace,
Bow at His feet, and seek His face.

'Twill be too late when pent-up wrath
Breaks forth in surging seas of woe-
When His almighty sword is drawn,
This godless world to overthrow.
Then, tarry not, make haste and flee!
He waits in love to welcome thee.

Bow to His claims, own Him thy Lord,
Bedeck with joy His thorn-pierced brow.
Thus, antedate that coming day
When all before His shrine shall bow.
Crown Him in heart, His praises sing,
Thus, in desire, bring back THE KING.

C. C. Crowston