Stay, Mas­ter, stay, up­on this heav­en­ly hill;
A lit­tle long­er, let us lin­ger still;
With these two migh­ty ones of old be­side,
Near to the Aw­ful Pre­sence still ab­ide.
Before the gates of light we trem­bling stand,
And touch the veil that hides the spir­it land.

Stay, Mas­ter, stay! we breathe a pur­er air;
We soar aloft in com­mune, praise and pray­er;
Thoughts, feel­ings, flash­es, glimps­es come and go;
We can­not speak them—nay, we do not know:
Wrapped in this cloud of light we seem to be
The thing we fain would grow eter­nal­ly.

No! saith the Lord, the hour is past; we go:
Our home, our life, our du­ties lie be­low.
While here we kneel up­on the mount of pray­er,
The plough lies wait­ing in the fur­row there:
Here we have sought to learn His heav­en­ly will;
There we must do it—serve Him, seek Him still.

If man as­pires to reach the mount of God,
O’er the dull plains of earth must lie the road;
He who best does his low­ly du­ty here,
Shall soar the far­thest in that lof­ti­er sphere:
In God’s high work we find His pr­omised rest;
And he is near­est Him who serves Him best.