O Christ, the King! We also wander on the desert-hills, Though haunted by Thy call, returning sweet At morn and eve. We will not come to Thee Till Thou hast nailed us to some bitter cross, And _made_ us look on Thine, and driven at last To call on Thee with trembling and with tears.-- Thou lookest down in love, upbraiding not, And promising the kingdom!
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A throne,--and one Who kneels before it, bending low in new And speechless joy.
It is the night on earth. The shadows fall like dew upon the hills Around the Holy City, but above, Beyond the dark vale of the sky, beyond The smiling of the stars, they meet once more In peace and glory. Heaven is comforted,-- For that strange warfare is accomplished now, Her King returned with joy: and one who watches The far-off morning in a prison dim, And hung at noonday on the bitter cross, Is kneeling at His feet, and tasteth now The sweet, sweet opening of an endless joy.