ALL day, perchance, thy feet must tread the valley;
All day, the multitude around may throng—
With claims unceasing, pressing close upon thee.
And voices loud in sorrow, strife, or song.
Before the multitude, before the valley.
Before the toil that binds thee heart and hand,
Be ready in the first fresh hour of morning,
High in the mount alone with God to stand.
What then? Oh, He is waiting there to meet thee—
Himself in strange sweet beauty to reveal—
Himself with thee alone to hold communion—
To lift thee past earth’s shadows to the Real.
Go! Wait before Him where His voice may reach thee.
Wait where His touch may thrill thee through and through—
Until His glorious face shall shine upon thee,
With grace and love undreamed of hitherto.
Forget the busy hours that lie before thee;
Forget awhile the world of toil and care;
Forget that other hearts await thy coming;
Let God Himself alone possess thee there.
What will the day’s work be, down in the valley?
What will the eyes of other toilers see?
The lingering light of God’s own gracious presence—
His voice—His touch—still giving strength to thee.