The Son

A listening servant, waiting thy command

To roll rejoicing on its silent way;

The tongue of time abides the appointed hour,

Till on our ear its silent warnings fall;

The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower,

Then every drop speeds onward at thy call;

The bird reposes on the yielding bough,

With breast unswollen by the tide of song;

So does my spirit wait thy presence now

To pour thy praise in quickening life along,