There is glory to me in thy Name,

Meek follower of Bethlehem's Child!

More touching by far than the splendours of Fame,

With which the vain world is beguil’d:—

’Tis the glory of goodness, the praise of the just,

Which outlives even death, and is fragrant in dust.

The warrior may win for his brow

The proud victor chaplet of bay;—

But innocent blood sheds a stain on the bough,

And steals all its verdure away:

While Humanity turns from the pageant aside,

By the sorrows and suff’rings of others supplied.

Success on the Bard may bestow

The myrtle-wreath, meed of his lays;

And brightly and gaily that trophy may glow

In the sunshine of popular praise:—

But if Virtue have turn’d from his page with disgust,

Soon, soon shall the trophy surrender its trust.

A king in his crown may rejoice;

And Rank of its titles be proud;

The Singer exult in the charms of his voice;

And Pomp in the gaze of a crowd;

And the martyr of Wealth, render’d poor by his store,

Be bow’d to by those who his Idol adore.

Yet the King must descend from his throne

When the day of Jehovah shall come;

And titles be trustless, and Pomp stand alone,

And the voice of the Singer be dumb;—

And Mammon, once worshipp’d, be loath’d and abhorr’d,

In the just and the terrible day of The Lord!

Then who with acceptance shall stand

In the presence of glory and light,

Having palm-branch, or censer, or harp in the hand,

And array’d in apparel of white,—

While that volume its awful contents shall reveal,

Which THE LION OF JUDAH alone can unseal?

Even they who through great tribulation

Have worship’d the holy I AM!

Whose spiritual garments are pure by lavation

In the all-cleansing blood of THE LAMB!

’Tis these, and these only, by day and by night,

Shall kneel in his temple, and stand in his sight.

From them must the chorus ascend

Which shall peal through the confines of space,

Of “Holy! thrice holy! and praise without end