FullReads

The words we speak on the empty air,
Are never lost, but recorded there;
The process we may not comprehend,
Nor how the words with the air may blend,
But science shows what results may be;
Accept the fact, is enough for me.

The waves of sound may have died away
As ripples faint on a sheltered bay;
But though now faint will be heard again,
By God, ourselves, and the sons of men.
As sound e’en now may be multiplied;
The faintest moan like the roaring tide;
The housefly’s tread with its tiny feet
Like tramp of horse on the stone-paved street.

So, though now faint, will those voices be,
When Christ shall come in His majesty;
Our quicken’d sense will the echo hear,
Like blast of horn to the timid deer.

In pleasant tones will the echoes be,
Of words of love and of happy glee,
Which we address to the friends we love,
Or offer up to our Lord above.

But, unlike those, all the echoes heard,
Of angry tones, and each sword-like word;
As we here mete to our fellow men,
The Judge shall mete in full measure then.

The thoughts we think may be lasting, too,
Though not inscribed on the azure blue;
On the tissued walls of the soul’s great dome,
May be found those thoughts ne’er more to roam.
And like our thoughts, may we not become
The thought we think, be ourselves the sum?
May thoughts of God on my heart be graved,
And I be known as a sinner saved.