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We miss your pen of fire, whose cloven tongue Illum'd the good and blasted what was base. We miss you, fearless fighter for our race, Your arrows words, your bow a will highstrung. We miss you, for you tower'd from among The herd of writers with that careless grace That springs from undisputed strength. Your place Is vacant still. Your bow is still uphung. 'Tis well. This were no time for you.
'No war or battle's sound Is heard the world around, The idle spear and shield are high uphung; The trumpet speaks not to the armed throng, And Kings sit still, with awful eye, As if they surely knew their Sovereign Lord was by. Such are the thoughts which our Lord would teach us as to the present and as to the future of our missionary work.
"The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard and loud lament!" I cannot hear the angels, nor see, for the flames of burning cities, their shining ranks descend the sky. "No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high uphung" on that first Christmas Eve.
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