The Coming of His Feet

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

By the Ga­li­le­an sea

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 be­tween the cher­ub­im

Thro’ the won­der­ing throngs

With mo­tion strong and fleet

Sounds His vic­tor tread

with mu­sic

Of re­demp­tion’s chor­al hymn

The mu­sic of the com­ing of His feet.

Comes He sand­aled not with sil­ver

Gilded 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.