In the crimson of the morning,
In the whiteness of the noon,
In the amber glory of the day�s retreat;
In the midnight robed in darkness,
Or the gleaming of the moon,
I listen for the coming of His feet.

I have heard His weary footsteps
By the Galilean sea,
On the Temple�s marble pavement, on the street;
Worn with weight of sorrow, falt�ring
Up the slopes of Calvary,
The sorrow of the coming of His feet.

Down the minster aisles of splendor,
From between the cherubim,
Thro� the wond�ring throngs with motion strong and fleet,
Sounds His victor tread, with music,
Of redemption�s choral hymn,
The music of the coming of His feet.

Comes He sandaled not with silver,
Gilded not with woven gold,
Weighted not with shimm�ring gems and odors sweet;
But white-winged and shod with glory,
In the Tabor-light of old,
The glory of the coming of His feet.

He is coming, O my spirit,
With His everlasting peace,
With His blessedness immortal and complete;
He is coming, O my spirit,
And His coming brings release,
I listen for the coming of His feet.