Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825–1906)

“TILL He come,” Oh, let the words

Linger on the trembling chords;

Let the little while between

In their golden light be seen;

Let us think how heaven and home

Lie beyond that “Till He come.”

When the weary ones we love

Enter on their rest above,

Seems the earth so poor and vast,

All our life-joy overcast?

Hush, be every murmur dumb:

It is only, “Till He come.”

Clouds and conflicts round us press;

Would we have one sorrow less?

All the sharpness of the cross,

All that tells the world is loss,

Death, and darkness, and the tomb,

Only whisper, “Till He come.”

See the fast of love is spread,

Drink the wine, and eat the bread:

Sweet memorials,—till the Lord

Call us round His heavenly board;

Some from earth, from glory some,

Severed only “Till He come.”