The Coming Of The King.

"O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy atones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children." Isaiah, liv. 11-13.     As the sand of the desert is smitten         By hoof-beats that strike out a light,     A flash by which dumb things are litten,         The children of night;     So Thou who of old did'st create us,         Among the high gods the Most High,     Strike us with Thy brightness, and let us         Behold Thee, and die.     Grown old in blind anguish and travail,         Thy world thou mad'st sinless and free     Gropes on, with no power to unravel         The clue back to Thee:     Since his feet from Thy ways torn and bleeding         The long march of ages began,     And the gates of Thy sword-guarded Eden         Were closed upon man.     Fates thicken, and prophecies darken,         Grown up into blossom and fruit;     And we lean in these last days to hearken         The sound of Thy foot.     Not now as a star-fallen stranger,         By shepherds, and pilgrims adored,     As couched among kine in a manger,         An undeclared lord:     Not now in waste wilderness places,         And mountains, and wind-shaken seas,     Proclaiming to strange alien races         The gospel of peace;     Who rended'st the prey from the leopard,         With sorrowful wounding and strife,     The Priest--the Lamb slain--the Good Shepherd,         The way and the life.     Not the face that wept over the city         Nor that with its anguish of pain     In the garden, nnlightened by pity         Of angels or men;     Nor the suffering form, unreplying.         With the chrysm of death at its lips;     Cross-uplifted, and nail-pierced, and dying         In fateful eclipse:     But with all heaven's glory and splendour         Through the gates of the morning come down,     And with thrones and dominions to render         Him sceptre and crown!     With the Face beyond all men's thinking,         Beholden of all men's eyes;     And the earth in its gladness drinking         The light of the skies.     With the rapture of angels, the singing         Of radiant choirs unknown,     And the shouting of glad hosts bringing         Our King to His throne!     O City of David, the Golden,         That sittest in darkness so long,     No longer in chains thou art holden,         Break forth into song!     Arise, and upbuild thy waste places,         Take helmet and buckler and sword,     And gather from far-scattered races         The tribes of the Lord!     Thy Prince shall ride onward victorious;         Full strong are his arrows and fleet;     And high shall His throne he, and glorious         The place of His feet!     Set thy lips to the trumpet, awaken         The isles of the South and the North,     As the trees of the forest are shaken         When whirlwinds go forth:     Like the waves of the sea, like the thunder         Of armies, with jubilant voice,     A multitude no man can number         Shall sing and rejoice.     The kingdoms beyond the great river,         The uttermost isles of the sea,     And peoples and tribes shall deliver         Thy children to thee.     Once more shall thine ensign, the Lion         Of Judah, be o'er thee unfurled;     Once more shall thy gates be, O Zion,         Set wide to the world!     With hands stretched in mute supplication,         With longing, and weeping, and prayer,     We have waited for this, thy salvation,         In grief--not despair;     Till thy Lord to His temple descended,         Shall comfort thee, sorrowful one,     And the days of thy mourning be ended,         Thy triumph begun.     Till the mountains about thee assemble         Lost lights of the sun-dawn, rose-red,     White splendours, that point as they tremble         The path for His tread:     Through the hate of our foes, and their scorning         And dumb in the darkness we wake,     For the night is far spent--and the morning         In glory shall break.