Poetry

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In the morning, in the morning, when the shadows flee away,
When the darkness shall be vanquished at the coming of the day;
When the heavens at last shall open, and the King Himself descend
To call home His own beloved, and the reign of sin to end.

In the morning, when He cometh, all His ransomed calling home,
When their sorrows here are ended, and their crowning day is come,
From their toil and beds of sickness, from their grief and burdens sore
They shall rise to be with Jesus, in His presence evermore.

In the morning, at the daybreak, when the Savior comes again,
To restore His sad creation, and to banish death and sin,
What rejoicing in that moment, as we crown our King and Lord,
And the patience of the saints shall then at last have its reward.

In the morning, when He cometh, music thrilling down the skies,
As the trump of God is sounding, bidding all the dead arise,
Then the blest who sleep in Jesus, at His summons hastening home,
For the glory of His kingdom and the day of Christ are come.

In the morning, when He calleth, then the saints that still remain
Shall be caught to heaven to meet Him and their loved ones once again.
Made like Him--pure, blest, immortal--in the twinkling of an eye,
They shall reach that promised haven, they shall meet Him in the sky.

Yes, in the morning, we'll see our Savior,
And by His mercy, no more to roam;
The battle over, and more than conquerors,
Through Him that loved us, safe, safe at home.

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