But cease this melancholy moan,
Nor sigh for those who will not come,
For Israel surely will return
To Zion and Jerusalem.
There is a source of pure delight
For ever shall support my heart:
For Zion's land's revealed to sight,
Where saints will meet no more to part.
MISSION OF THE TWELVE.
How fleet the precious moments roll,
How soon the harvest will be o'er:
The watchmen seek their final rest,
And lift a warning voice no more.
Another year has roll'd away
And took its thousands to the tomb;
Its sorrows and its joys are fled,
To hasten on the general doom.
And eighteen hundred thirty five.
Is rolling swiftly on the wing,
And soon the leaves and tendrils thrive;
A token of returning spring.
The fulness of the gospel shines
With glorious and resplendent rays;
The earth and heav'ns show forth their signs.
As tokens of the latter days.
SECOND PART.
Ye chosen twelve, to you are given,
The keys of this last ministry—
To every nation under heaven,
From land to land, from sea to sea.
First to the Gentiles sound the news
Throughout Columbia's happy land,
And then before it reach the Jews,
Prepare on Europe's shores to stand.