No Track Is on the Sunny Sky

No track is on the sun­ny sky

No foot­prints on the air;

Jesus hath gone: the face of earth

Is de­so­late and bare.

The bless­èd feet of Ma­ry’s Son

They tread the streets no more;

His soul-con­vert­ing voice gives not

Its mu­sic as be­fore.

The Up­per Room is Heav’n on earth;

Within its pre­cincts lie

All that earth has of faith

or hope

Or heav’n-born char­ity.

The eye of God looks down on them

His love is cen­tered there;

His Spir­it yearns to be o’er­come

By their sweet strife of pray­er.

Th’eter­nal Son takes up the pray­er

Upon His roy­al throne;

The Son His child­ren’s voic­es hears

The Sire His eq­ual Son.

The Spir­it hears

and He con­sents

His mis­sion to ful­fill;

For what is asked hath ev­er been

His own eter­nal will.

Ten days and nights in acts di­vine

Of aw­ful love were spent

Apostles and dis­ci­ples prayed

The Spir­it might be sent.

The joy of an­gels grew and grew

To hear their won­drous pray­er

And the di­vine Com­pla­cence stooped

To feed His glo­ry there.

For ev­er com­ing did He seem

For ev­er on the wing;

His chos­en an­gels round His throne

Now gazed

now ceased to sing.

How beau­ti­ful

how pass­ing speech

The Dove did then ap­pear

As the hour of His hu­mil­ity

At pray­er­ful word drew near!

The hour was come; the wings of love

By His own will were freed:

The hour was come; the eter­nal Three

His mis­sion had de­creed.

Then for His love of worth­less men

His love of pray­er’s worth

His beau­te­ous wings the Dove out­spread

And winged His flight to earth.

O won­drous flight! He left not Heav’n

Though earth’s low fields He won

But in the bo­som still re­posed

Of Fa­ther and of Son.

O flight! O bless­èd flight of love!

Let me Thy mer­cies share;

Grant it

sweet Dove

for my poor soul

Was in their lift­ed pray­er.