139
ADVENT.
This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
And still their flame is strong.
"Watchman, what of the night?" we cry
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
"No speaking signs are in the sky,"
Is still the watchman's word.
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
And still their flame is strong.
"Watchman, what of the night?" we cry
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
"No speaking signs are in the sky,"
Is still the watchman's word.
The Porter watches at the gate,
The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
The prize is slow to win.
"Watchman, what of the night?" but still
His answer sounds the same:
The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
The prize is slow to win.
"Watchman, what of the night?" but still
His answer sounds the same:
