| The sunset burns across the sky; Upon the air it's warning cry. The curfew tolls, from tower to tower; O children, 'tis the last, last hour! The work that centuries might have done, must crowd the setting sun. And through all the land the saving name; Ye must, in fervent haste, proclaim. The fields are white to harvest weep, O tardy workers, as ye reap. For wasted hour that might have won; Rich harvests ere the set of the sun. We hear his footsteps on the way! O work, while it is called today. Constrained by love, endued with power; O children, in this last, last hour! |