Where My Father Walks by Arthur W. Spaulding

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D.C. · Apr 18, 1912

Where My Father Walks

By Arthur W. Spaulding

ARTHUR W. SPAULDING

The twilight drifts upon the land; the night calls come again; And chafed in spirit from the wiles and artifice of men, I turn my face from all the pride that at my suffering mocks, And seek the road that leads away to where my Father walks.

Between the mountain heights that loom upon the dark ravine (The markings of his finger-trace, as of a hand unseen), My feet are guided to the spot where his have often stood, And keep the sacred tryst behind the curtains of the wood.

I see no face, but in the gloam I dimly trace the care His loving hand has tak’n to make the trysting-place so fair: From low rhodora to the pine; from peeping violet And flaunting rose and galax meek to fir and castanea.

The murmur of his soothing voice is in the ’plaining stream, The lighting of his eye is caught in sunlight’s farewell gleam. The benediction of his breath is in the stirring air, The stately steppings of his feet in silence everywhere.

The wildness’ solitude uplifts to greet my silent soul, And waves of peace and thankfulness in glory o’er me roll; The promises of Holy Writ rejoin the words of prayer; And when I leave the place, I know my God has met me there.