Forty days Thy seer of old
Communed with Thee, O Most High;
Fain Thy glo­ries to be­hold
And Thy glo­ry pass­ing by.

In the roc­ky cleft he bowed;
Thou, as mor­tal gaze might bear,
Part re­vealed and part in cloud,
Didst Thy sec­ret name de­clare.

Forty days of East­er-tide
Thou didst com­mune with Thine own;
Now by glimps­es, Lord, de­scried,
Handled now and proved and known;

Known, most mer­ci­ful, yet veiled;
Else be­fore the aw­ful sight
Surely heart and flesh had failed,
Smitten with ex­ceed­ing light.

Risen Mas­ter, fain would we,
Sharing those un­earth­ly days,
Morn and eve, on shore and sea,
Watch Thy move­ments, mark Thy ways;

Catch by faith each glad sur­prise
Of Thy foot­step draw­ing nigh,
Hear Thy sud­den greet­ing rise—
Peace be to you! It is I.

Secrets of Thy king­dom learn,
Read the vi­sions op­en spread,
Feel Thy Word with­in us burn,
Know Thee in the brok­en bread.

So Thy glo­ry’s skirts be­side
Gently led from grace to grace,
We Thy com­ing may ab­ide,
And ad­ore Thee face to face.