Sometimes beneath a desert tree
One sits in deepest gloom and night,
When lo! an angel touches him,
And bids him go to Horeb height.
On Horeb, waiting patiently,
Yet scarcely hoping to rejoice,
Above the earthquake, fire, and wind,
He hears in awe the "still small voice."
Sometimes upon a barren plain
One sees again the bush that burned;
He puts the shoes from off his feet,
And humbly seeks the truth there learned.
Nor can he longer now remain
In heaviness, with Love so near
Who ever does His promise keep,
To lift His own above all fear.
The dove flies joyous from the hand
As heaven's windows open wide;
And now the ark is lifted up,
To rest upon the mountain side.
What visions of a happier land
Glow through one's radiant repose!
All—all may drink life's brimming cup,
And here for ashes find the rose.
