I may hear His voice at morning,
When the sky is softly bright,
And a flood of golden glo­ry
Tinges every purple height;
Ere my hands begin the labor
Which belongeth to the day,
I may hear Him softly whisper,
Fold thy work and come away.

I may hear Him in the noontide,
When the reapers take their rest,
And the golden sheaves are lying
Prostrate on the earth’s warm breast;
In the overpowering brightness
Of the glo­ri­ous midday sun,
He may come with shining sickle
And life’s work for me be done.

I may hear Him in the midnight,
As His voice of solemn cheer
Pierces through the mystic silence,
Whispering: Thy Guest is here;
Rise and climb the upper pathway
Where have walked the sons of God;
I, the Messenger, will lead thee
Safely where their feet have trod.

Since He may come in the morning,
At the noon or eventide,
I must have my garments rea­dy,
And my lamp with oil supplied;
I must listen for His knocking,
I must rise and ope the gate,
For He comes to guide me safely
Where the angels for me wait.