No track is on the sunny sky,
No footprints on the air;
Jesus hath gone: the face of earth
Is desolate and bare.
The blessèd feet of God’s own Son,
They tread the streets no more;
His soul-converting voice gives not
Its music as before.
The Upper Room is Heav’n on earth;
Within its precincts lie
All that earth has of faith, or hope,
Or heaven-born charity.
The eye of God looks down from high,
His love is centered there;
His Spirit yearns to be o’ercome
By sweetest strife of prayer.
The eternal Son takes up the prayer
Upon His royal throne;
The Son His children’s voices hears,
The Sire His equal Son.
The Spirit hears, and He consents
His mission to fulfill;
For what is asked hath ever been
His own eternal will.
Ten days and nights in acts divine
Of awful love were spent,
Apostles and disciples prayed
The Spirit might be sent.
The joy of angels grew and grew
To hear their wondrous prayer,
And the divine Complacence stooped
To feed His glory there.
For ever coming did He seem,
For ever on the wing;
His chosen angels round His throne
Now gazed, now ceased to sing.
How beautiful, how passing speech,
The Dove did then appear,
As the hour of His humility
At prayerful word drew near!
The hour was come; the wings of love
By His own will were freed:
The hour was come; the eternal Three
His mission had decreed.
Then for His love of worthless men,
His love of prayer’s worth,
His beauteous wings the Dove outspread
And winged His flight to earth.
O wondrous flight! He left not Heaven,
Though earth’s low fields He won,
But in the bosom still reposed
Of Father and the Son!
O flight! O blessèd flight of love!
Let me Thy mercies share;
Grant it, sweet Dove, for my poor soul
Was in their lifted prayer.