the paris disaster.
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Brother! listen, not to me,
But the voice that speaks within me,
A voice that bids me plead with thee,
Urging me to try and win thee
Back from Ruin's dread abyss,
O'er which thy feet will surely fall,
If thou turn deaf ears to this—
The Spirit's final call.
But the voice that speaks within me,
A voice that bids me plead with thee,
Urging me to try and win thee
Back from Ruin's dread abyss,
O'er which thy feet will surely fall,
If thou turn deaf ears to this—
The Spirit's final call.
Brother! say not "'tis too late"—
"All things are possible to Me,"
God says. And at His golden gate
Mercy stands beckoning to thee.
Arise! while thou hast strength to climb,
Lift up thine eyes, there's help above;
And thou may'st yet win back in time,
Lost fame, lost hope, lost home and love.
"All things are possible to Me,"
God says. And at His golden gate
Mercy stands beckoning to thee.
Arise! while thou hast strength to climb,
Lift up thine eyes, there's help above;
And thou may'st yet win back in time,
Lost fame, lost hope, lost home and love.
The Paris Disaster.
O, France! grief-stricken land,
We tender thee,
In this dark hour of thine,
Our sympathy.
We tender thee,
In this dark hour of thine,
Our sympathy.
Truly, the flaming sword—
Death's fiery dart—
Has pierced gay Paris to
Her very heart.
Death's fiery dart—
Has pierced gay Paris to
Her very heart.
