Asked for a reason
When all the great plants of our cities have turned out their last finished work, when our merchants have made their last bargain, and dismissed the last tired clerk, when our banks have raked in the last dollar, and have paid out the last dividend; when the judge of the earth says, “Close for the night,” and asks for a balance, what then?
When the choir has sung its last anthem, and the preacher has said his last prayer, when the people have heard their last sermon, and the sound has died out on the air, when the Bible lies closed on the pulpit, and the pews are all empty of men; when each one stands facing his record, and the great book is opened, what then?
When the actors have played their last drama, and the mimic has made his last fun; when the movies have flashed the last picture, and the billboard displayed its last run when the crowds seeking pleasure have vanished and gone into darkness again, when the trumpet of ages is sounded, and we stand up before him, what then?
When the bugle’s last call sinks in silence, and the long marching columns stand still, when the captain has given his last order, and they’ve captured the last fort and hill, when the flag has been hauled from the masthead, and the wounded afield have checked in, and the world that rejected its saviour is asked for a reason, what then?