The Coming of His Feet

In the crimson of the morning, in the whitness of the noon,
In the Amber glory of the days 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 marble pavement on the street,
Worn with weight of sorrow falt'ring up the slopes of Calvary
The sorrow of the coming of his feet.

Down the minister-aisles of splendor, from betwixt the cherubim,
Thro' the wond'ring throng with motion strong and fleet
Sounds his victor tread, with a music far and dim
The music of the coming of his feet.

Sandalled not with shoes of silver, girdled not with woven gold
Weighted not with shimmering gems and odors sweet,
But white-winged, and shod with glory as in the Tabor light of old,
The glory of the coming of his feet.

He is coming, oh my spirit! With his everlasting peace;
With his blessedness, immortale and complete;
He is coming, oh my spirit! and his coming brings release!
I am living for the coming of his fee.