THE FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY?
While centuries pass with solemn tread,
And kingdoms sink, the Church remains,—
From life's immortal fountain fed,
A light whose glory never wanes.
Where are the fathers? Once they stood
With fervent faith, with armor bright;
Now, gathered with the sons of God,
As stars at morning melt in light.
Here have they worshipped; here they died;
And here their fallen mantles rest;
Though gone from earth, their works abide,
Like sunset glory in the west.
The censers, from their hands we take,
And wave with hallowed incense still;
They sleep in death; their children wake,
The lamps with golden light to fill.
Head of the Church, our All, our Guide,
We own Thy power, we sing Thy grace;
Still to new conquests Thou shalt ride,
And added centuries speak Thy praise.
