Not Long on Hermon’s Holy Height

Not long on Her­mon’s ho­ly height

The heav’n­ly vi­sion fills our sight;

We may not breathe that pur­er air

Nor build our ta­ber­na­cles there.

The vi­sion fades

the splen­dor dies;

The saints have sought again the skies;

The home­ly garb the Mas­ter wore

Is bright with sud­den glow no more.

If with the Mas­ter we would go

Our feet must thread the vale be­low

Where dark the lone­ly path­ways wind

The gold­en glory left be­hind.

Where hun­gry souls ask One to feed

Where wan­d’rers cry for One to lead

Where help­less hearts in chains are bound—

There shall the Mas­ter still be found:

There

pa­tient bend­ing o’er His task

No rai­ment white our eyes shall ask

Content while through each cloud we trace

The glo­ry of the Mas­ter’s face.