In the awful age of night,
When the earth was struck with blight,
And the clouds of papal darkness filled the sky;
Persecutionís fire and blood,
Raging in an angry flood,
Failed to crush the church sustained by God on high.
We are in the evening of the dispensation day,
And the gospel light has scattered all the night away;
On the sunny mountain where the melody of song
Floats upon the breezes as we swiftly pass along.
But she raised her banner high,
And did all her foes defy,
Over her the gates of hell have not prevailed;
For her forces multiplied,
Notwithstanding those who died,
In the martyrís flames her glory was revealed.
Now the evening time has come,
When the brightness of the sun,
Through the gospel shining in remotest land;
It will reach the distant isles,
Where the golden harvest smiles,
To be gathered while the Saviorís near at hand.
We are in the evening light,
Shining as the morning bright,
And the clouds of thick obscurity are passed;
In the conquest we are strong,
Singing as we march along,
And weíre ready for the final trumpetís blast.