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THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


171

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

There are no times nor seasons unto Him
Who fashioned forth this universal frame,
The stars revolving weary grow and dim,
The Pleiad leaves on high no lingering flame,
Creations spring to birth, in age decay,
And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away:
And as a point to Him man's fearful life—
Not by revolving sun nor changeful moon—
Mark not by these his agony and strife;
Oh! not by these his youth, his fervid noon,
Thronged by emotions crowded to a span,
Ages concentred in the life of man:
And Thou, to whom all seasons are the same,
Though blindly erring, devious in our way,
Remember thou the weakness of our frame,
Forgive, though late we bow to thee and pray;
Though at the eleventh hour the offering be,
Spurn not the spirit seeking thus to thee;
For unto thee, oh God! a thousand years
Is as man's yesterday of smiles and tears.