He Will Come, Perhaps, at Morning

He will come

per­haps

at morn­ing

When to simp­ly live is sweet

When the arm is strong

un­wear­ied

By the noon­day toil and heat;

When the un­dimmed eye looks fear­less

Up the shin­ing heights of life

And the ea­ger soul is pant­ing

Yearning for some no­ble strife.

He will come

per­haps

at noon­tide

When the pulse of life throbs high

When the fruits of toil are rip­en­ing

And the har­vest time is nigh;

Then thro’ all the full-orbed splen­dor

Of the sun’s me­ri­di­an blaze

There may shine the strange

new beau­ty

Of the Lord’s trans­fig­ured face.

Or it may be in the ev­en­ing—

Gray and som­ber is the sky

Clouds around the sun­set ga­ther

Far and dark the sha­dows lie;

When we long for rest and slum­ber

And some ten­der thoughts of home

Fill the heart with vague

sad yearn­ing

Then per­haps the Lord will come.

If He on­ly finds us rea­dy

In the morn­ing’s hap­py light

In the strong and fie­ry noon­tide

Or the com­ing of the night—

If He on­ly finds us wait­ing

Listening for His sud­den call

Then His com­ing when we think not

Is the sweet­est hope of all.