First came the hour of pray­er,
Calm in the mount­ain air,
And then with sud­den blaze
Came glo­ri­ous sight;
Yet proud of heart, wouldst thou
Be blest on Ta­bor’s brow,
Before thy pa­tient pray­ers
Have stormed its height?

Or thou hast slept per­chance;
Oh, for an an­gel’s glance,
Oh, for a light to pierce,
Mystery to scan!
With face of dazz­ling light,
In rai­ment pure and white,
With re­ver­ent gaze, be­hold
The Son of Man.

Alas! hadst thou but known
The vi­sion to be shown,
Eagerly thou hadst strained
Thine anx­ious eyes;
Thy Lord trans­fig­ured there,
The while His un­known pray­er
Rose up, by an­gels borne
To won­der­ing skies.

How hadst thou watched! But now,
Before the Al­tered bow,
The Al­tered, still for thee,
The ve­ry same;
That Babe on Ma­ry’s knee,
Now Christ to die for thee,
Clothed in a won­drous robe
Of burn­ing flame.

From hid­den grave afar,
From mys­tic fie­ry car,
Lord of the ag­es past,
Future, and space,
The liv­ing and the dead
Brings to this mount­ain dread,
Bright with the ra­di­ance of
Incarnate grace.

No thun­ders shake the air,
No lightn­ings strike des­pair,
Yet see the Pro­phet and
Law Giv­er here;
God talks with men, and they
His glo­ry see to­day,
Nor fall in dread am­aze,
For Christ is near.

Oh, in this aw­ful hour
Of rule and king­ly pow­er,
The Lord of Glo­ry now
Speaks un­to them;
Hear, mid the shin­ing light,
He tells of com­ing night,
Death that awaits Him at
Jerusalem.

Proud heart, when soar­ing high,
Scaling the ve­ry sky,
Self-throned awhile in some
Seventh heav’n of bliss;
Think thou with tremb­ling breath
Of dark­ness and of death,
Thy Lord from Ta­bor’s mount
Hath taught thee this.

And when the cloud is near,
And flesh shrinks down in fear,
As thou art tread­ing on
Dread paths un­known,
O voice of love, be near,
Call through the cloud and fear,
Lead to the Mount of God,
To Je­sus’ throne.