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CATHEDRAL HYMN.
Yes! here before thy throne
Many—yet each alone—
To thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear.
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield
The hope—the stay—the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
