THE DAY OF GOD.
BY GEO. S. BURLEIGH.
AIR,— “Old Hundred.”
I.
God reaps his judgment-field to-day,
And sifts the darnel from the wheat;
A whirlwind sweeps the chaff away,
And fire the refuge of deceit.
II.
In vain a nation’s bloody sweat,
The sob of myriad hearts in vain,
If the scotched snake may live to set
Its venom in our flesh again.
III.
The lords of treason and the whip
Have called us to the dread appeal,
From the loud cannon’s fevered lip.
And the wide flash of bristling steel.
IV.
If now the echo of that voice
Shake down their prison-house of wrong,
They have their own perfidious choice,
For God is good, and Truth is strong.
V.
Their steel draws lightning, and the bolt
But fires their own volcanic mine;
God in their vineyard of Revolt
Treads out his sacramental wine!
VI.
Be this our conquest,—as they gave
Their all to Treason and the Chain,
We snap the fetter from the slave,
And make our sole revenge their gain!
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