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.