How long the years—
slow passing weeks—days—hours
since first
in frightened haste
I broke away,
fled Pharaoh's palace,
in sympathy
with mine own captive brethren.
Yet I dared to hope:
Surely for a great purpose
was I saved from birth!
But on and on the silent years marched by
nor any sign.
Still blazed the great stars
in long desert nights.
Still the suns rose and set.
And I, at humble task,
followed across the wastes the drifting sheep.
Then the bush flamed!
The message came:
Put off thy shoes,
for this is holy ground!
And, awestruck, I slipped dusty sandals off,
learned, trembling, my great task;
realized, at last,
that all those weary, waiting, growing years
I had trod every step
on holy ground.
