Great is our God, and worthy to be praised.
Whilst blissful thus, the saints around the throne, With joy past utt'rance, their Deliv'rer sing, The faithful few, on Olivet remain, In hope again their risen Lord to see. Entranced they wait, till day's declining ray, Dimly evanish' d from the evening sky, And still tow'rds heaven, direct their ardent gaze, As loath to leave the spot his vision bless'd. Nor yet, not knowing, did their hope seem vain ; For sudd'n th' archangel Gabriel, heav'nly sent, On radiant pinions, fann'd the downy air. Bright as the sun, his glorious plumage shone, Or varying hues, that gild the northern sky, When Sol on Taurus rides, midst brilliant fires. The sacred Mother knew her guardian's mien, As now with even wing he cuts the air, And verges tow'rds the hill whereon they stand. Veiling his brilliance neath the form of man, With snowy tunic deck'd, he soon draws near, And mildly thus his high commission serves :
" Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye here, With look intent, fix'd sorrowing on the sky? Know that the Son of Man, whose loss ye mourn, Whom ye this day, saw rising on the West, Will, in like manner as he went, return. The day, the hour, is in his counsels fix'd; No further seek; enough for you to know, That when th' irrevocable hour arrives, His angel's trumpet shall with great voice sound, And gather his Elect from the four winds, From farthest heaven, and earth's remotest bounds.