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.