A Soul’s Crisis

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,
Nor pale the glow of health.

The conscience may be still at ease,
The spirit light and gay,
That which is pleasing still may please,
And care be thrust away.

Oh, where is this mysterious bourne
By which our 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?

An answer from the skies is sent:
Ye that from God depart,
While it is called today, repent,
And harden not your heart.

—J.A. Alexander