And Christ reigns supreme in His kingdom of peace. — Albert Simpson Reitz W H A T THEN? When the great plants of our cities Have turned out their last finished work; When our merchants have sold their last yard of silk And dismissed the tired clerk; When our banks have raked in their last dollar And paid their last dividends, When the Judge of the world says, "Closed for the night," And asks for a balance— what then? When the choirs have sung their last anthem, And the preacher has read his last prayer; When the people have heard their last sermon And the song has died on the air; When the Bible lies closed on the altar, And the pews are all empty of men. And each one stands facing his record, And the Great Book is open — what then? When the actors have played their last drama. And the mimic has made his last fun; When the film has flashed its last picture And the billboard has displayed its last run; When the crowds seeking pleasure have vanished And gone out into darkness again; When the trumpet of ages is sounded And we stand up before Him— what then? When the bugles' last call becomes silent And the long marching columns stand still; When the captain has given his last orders, And they have captured the last fort and hill; When the flag has been furled from the masthead And the wounded afield have checked in, And a world that rejected its Saviour Is asked for a reason — what then?
THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD Gethsemane's hour of anquish is o'er; The suffering Saviour is silent once more; The One who had prayed with strong crying and tears Stands calm and unmoved as the traitor appears. Now wicked men take Him and lead Him away Where death is awaiting the dawn of the day; Although the high priest found no wrong Christ had done, Yet straightway condemns Him, God's own sinless Son. Outside Pilate's palace they cry, "Crucify!" And Pilate in weakness consents to their cry. They nailed Him that day to a cross on a hill, Not knowing that they were fulfilling God's will. Oh, sorrow of sorrows! Oh, deepest of gloom! The Giver of Life is now sealed in the tomb. The one Who had fed them the miracle bread Lies silent and cold in the realm of the dead. But on the third day comes the won derful word That Jesus is living, the same loving Lord. The grave could not hold Him, though rock-hewn and strong, And hearts are rejoicing with jubilant song. One morn on a hilltop He bids them farewell, Ascending to heaven in splendor to dwell. And there at the right hand of God's golden throne, With true intercession, He prays for His own. Some day, by His grace, He is coming again, The King of ail kings and Ruler of all men. Then O, the great glory when evil shall cease,
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