1 ’Tis He! ’Tis He! The Son of God!
He sends His awful voice abroad:
Let earth her Lord revere!
With thousand saints behold Him come;
The world before her judge is dumb,
And waits her doom to hear.
2 He calls to Heaven, He calls to earth;
The nations from their tombs come forth,
And throng before His face.
"Approach, ye, first," the Savior cries,
"Whose boast is in My sacrifice,
And covenant of grace."
3 "My people, hear! Your God will speak:
No empty rites and forms I seek,
No specious act or word:
Mine eye is on the heart within,
And there the service must begin
That satisfies the Lord."
4 "Where secret wickedness I see
The fawning lip or bending knee
But move My scorn and hate!"
Lord, on our souls this truth impress,
And make us all that we profess,
Ere yet it be too late!
Lyte, Henry Francis, M.A., son of Captain Thomas Lyte, was born at Ednam, near Kelso, June 1, 1793, and educated at Portora (the Royal School of Enniskillen), and at Trinity College, Dublin, of which he was a Scholar, and where he graduated in 1814. During his University course he distinguished himself by gaining the English prize poem on three occasions. At one time he had intended studying Medicine; but this he abandoned for Theology, and took Holy Orders in 1815, his first curacy being in the neighbourhood of Wexford. In 1817, he removed to Marazion, in Cornwall. There, in 1818, he underwent a great spiritual change, which shaped and influenced the whole of his after life, the immediate cause being the illness and death of a brother cler… Go to person page >