Judah’s Light

It was amid the ga­ther­ing gloom

The deep pre­sag­ing woes

The night-fall of her hast­en­ing doom

That Ju­dah’s light arose.

It was while yet that vi­tal beam

Upon her bo­som lay

Her glo­ry van­ished like a dream

Her scep­ter passed away.

It came—her own Mes­si­ah’s reign

The king­dom of her God

Told by the star on Beth­le­hem’s plain

The voice on Jor­dan’s flood.

Told by each deep pro­phet­ic word

That said The Lord is nigh;

Responding from the earth that heard

The an­them from the sky.

Told by the gifts with which He came

In ages past de­fined—

The her­ald foot­step for the lame

And day­light for the blind.

By sounds which deaf­ened ear awoke

While all the world was dumb;

As if it first the si­lence broke

To say

The Lord is come!

By pow­er to loos­en speech­less tongue

Which

to the list­en­ing ear

That now up­on its ac­cents hung

Could say The Lord is here.

Told by au­thor­ity that gave

Its man­date to the deep:

That bid the whirl­wind and the wave

In calm obe­di­ence sleep.

Told by the sym­pa­thy severe

That o’er the suf­fer­ing bled;

That groaned to see the mourn­er’s tear

And then awoke the dead.

Told by the mir­acles di­vine

Magnificent and mild

That awed the priest­hood at the shrine

The thou­sands in the wild.

But Ju­dah turned from Da­vid’s son

In His ap­point­ed hour—

Nor owned that meek and Migh­ty One

In gen­tle­ness of pow­er.

Saw not

in grace and gran­deur meet

Messiah’s god­like charms

The low­ly bless­ing at His feet

And child­hood in His arms.

Marked not her Sov­er­eign from on high

When on the wave He trod;

Nor heard the star­tled de­mon’s cry

Before the Son of God.

Then

Ju­dah

then thy heart de­nied

The Ho­ly and the Just;

Yet still His Spir­it o’er thee sighed

And mourned thee in the dust.

Thy child­ren

on the mount­ain steep

Beheld His sor­rows flow

In tears which on­ly He could weep

That read thy doom of woe.

Thy fu­ture record

wide un­rolled

Before His vi­sion lay;

Thy de­so­la­tions

yet un­told—

Thy dark and bit­ter day.

’Tis past—that form no more ap­pears

Thine eyes no long­er see

The ma­jes­ty of love in tears

Jerusalem

for thee!

Thine hands have done the deed ac­cursed—

And wrath up­on the stain

Rolls o’er thee

like an ocean burst

For God’s Mes­si­ah slain.

The shud­der­ing earth con­fessed His doom

The uni­verse His cry;

And death came wan­der­ing from the tomb

To mark that He could die.

Soon were His se­pul­cher and shroud

Beneath thy burn­ing wall;

And He up­on the judg­ment cloud

That thun­dered o’er thy fall.