“He Is Not Here.”

“He is not here!” Ah, no! I seek in vain,
Mid fairest scenes of earth, my heart’s delight;
“He is not here!” else would those scenes remain
Unscathed by aught that speaks decay or blight.
Death like a shadow rests on all below,
E’en brightest landscape wears a tint of woe.
“He is not here!” the One my heart loves best.
Then can I join the giddy thoughtless throng,
Who heedless of His absence, careless rest,
Or féte that absence with gay mirth and song?
No! He is gone: and not the brightest ray
Can gild the scene to me while He’s away.
“He is not here!” Oppression, anguish, strife,
On every side, with solemn voice declare
Him here no more, the Lord of grace and life.
How can I then but garb of mourning wear?
They call me absent; — well, perhaps they may;
I’m listening for his voice while He’s away.
“He is not here!” I want Him every hour;
My soul would weary of his long delay,
Save that, like perfume from a hidden flower,
The fragrance of His spices cheers the way;
Yet fills my heart with more desire to prove
The fullness of Thy presence Lord above!
“He is not here!” but oh! He’s gone above,
The earth-rejected One has found His place.
The Paraclete, His messenger of love,
Witness alike of power divine and grace,
The Guide unto all truth, to us is given
To speak of Him whom now we know in heaven.
“He is not here!” but where His steps have been
We tread. Our home’s with him, our living Head.
In yon bright realms, whose floods of glorious sheen
On lowliest path of faith their lustre shed;
Tracing with golden threads our way below,
Till, in full blaze of light, as known we know.

“He is not here!” He’s risen, and soon shall call
His Bride, His undefiled one, to the skies.
Then in full splendor reign as Lord of all,
Where now, alas! He’s hated and despised.
Swell, swell the strain! bow down the head! adore!
THE CRUCIFIED shall reign for evermore.