There is a time, we know not when,
A point we know not where,
That marks the destiny of men
To glory or despair.
There is a line by us unseen,
That crosses every path;
The hidden boundary between
God's patience and his wrath.
To pass that limit is to die--
To die as if by stealth;
It does not quench the beaming eye
Or pale the glow of health.
The conscience may be still at ease,
The spirit blithe and gay;
That which pleases still may please,
And care be thrust away.
But on that forehead God has set,
Indelibly a mark,
Unseen by men, for men as yet
Are blind and in the dark.
Oh, where is this mysterious bourne
By which each path is crossed?
Beyond which God himself hath sworn
That he who goes is lost?
How far may we go on in sin?
How long will God forbear?
Where does hope end, and where begin
The confines of despair?
The answer from the skies is sent,
'Ye that from God depart,
While it is called today, repent,
And harden not your heart!'"
--Dr. Joseph Addison Alexander
