Sunday Hymn: Comfort, Comfort Ye My People

Comfort, com­fort ye My peo­ple,
Speak ye peace, thus sa­ith our God;
Comfort those who sit in dark­ness,
Mourning ’neath their sor­row’s load;
Speak ye to Je­ru­sa­lem
Of the peace that waits for them;
Tell her that her sins I cov­er,
And her war­fare now is ov­er.

For the her­ald’s voice is cry­ing
In the des­ert far and near,
Bidding all men to re­pent­ance,
Since the king­dom now is here.
O that warn­ing cry ob­ey!
Now pre­pare for God a way!
Let the val­leys rise to meet Him,
And the hills bow down to greet Him.

Yea, her sins our God will par­don,
Blotting out each dark mis­deed;
All that well de­served His an­ger
He will no more see nor heed.
She has suf­fered ma­ny a day,
Now her griefs have passed away,
God will change her pin­ing sad­ness
Into ev­er spring­ing glad­ness.

Make ye straight what long was crook­ed,
Make the rough­er places plain:
Let your hearts be true and hum­ble,
As be­fits His ho­ly reign,
For the glo­ry of the Lord
Now o’er the earth is shed abroad,
And all flesh shall see the to­ken
That His Word is ne­ver brok­en.

—Jo­han­nes G. Ole­ari­us