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.