"I hear a voice that calleth amain,
A voice of love and tears;
I have wooed, and I have listened in vain
Through long, long years--
And it speaks to-day.
My heart is troubled, and I must haste
To the sad sweet voice across the waste."
. . . . . . .
And in the morning, when the dew is sweet,
She hears the gentle music of His feet--
She hears Him speak and say, "I heard thy voice."
The glorious One draws nigh;
Amidst the dew when all the woods rejoice
With gladsome melody.
And she arrays herself in fair attire,
In raiment of a bride;
Her mantle is the holy judgment fire
Wherein the gold is tried.
Of meek humility her stole is spun,
Her robe is white as snow,
For unto Him, the High and Holy One,
She fain would go.
And thus she passeth through the forest dim,
Where holy people dwell,
And day and night, with dance and song and hymn,
Their gladness tell;
With solemn dance of praise that knows no end,
Hands linked with other hands of ancient years;
The mighty faith of Abraham His friend,
The longing of His seers;
The chaste humility of her who bore
God's blessed Son;
And all the victories that in days of yore
His saints have won--
These join in dance attuned to glorious song
And move in cadence sweet,
And multiplied as ages pass along
Are those rejoicing feet.