In the crimson of the morning, in the whiteness of
the noon,
In the amber glory of the day's retreat,
In the midnight, robed in darkness, or the gleaming
of the moon,
I listen for the coming of His feet. I have heard His weary footsteps on the sands of
Galilee,
On the temple's marble pavement, on the street,
Worn with weight of sorrow, faltering up the slopes
of Calvary,
The sorrow of the coming of His feet. Down the minster-aisles of splendor from betwixt
the cherubim,
Through the wondering throng, with motion
strong and fleet,
Sounds His victor tread, approaching with a music
far and dim—
The music of the coming of His feet. Sandaled not with shoon of silver, girdled not with
woven gold,
Weighted not with shimmering gems and odors
sweet,
But white-winged and shod with glory in the Tabor-
light of old—
The glory of the coming of His feet. He is coming, O my spirit! with His everlasting
peace,
With His blessedness immortal and complete.
He is coming, O my spirit! and His coming brings
release.
I listen for the coming of His feet.