There disappeareth from this tainted world
All sembleance of holy grace and joy,
Just as the fresh fruit groweth rotten,
And the suckling babe becometh a boy.
It may be recognised at once
That Our Lord hath abandoned us,
And we that once He dearly loved
Hath thrown aside, and now hath no trust.
But despair not hapless wanderer,
Ye that wand'reth through this spoilling realm,
For one day He will come again,
Just as the idling soldier putteth on again his helm.
What mattereth now is that we all,
Weak and strong, both rich and poor,
Make of this sinful world a better place,
So that He may come again once more.
I am of doubt that it will be so,
For the earth slowly shuffleth off its mortal coil,
But regardless, you not lose hope,
And seek to that impending end foil.
Lord give Grace to this fallen man,
Who in his miserable days hath rejected Thee,
And return him one day, unto Thine arms,
Just as a closing flower holdeth close a bee.
