He will come, per­haps, at morn­ing,
When to simp­ly live is sweet,
When the arm is strong, un­wear­ied
By the noon­day toil and heat;
When the un­dimmed eye looks fear­less
Up the shin­ing heights of life,
And the ea­ger soul is pant­ing,
Yearning for some no­ble strife.

He will come, per­haps, at noon­tide,
When the pulse of life throbs high,
When the fruits of toil are rip­en­ing,
And the har­vest time is nigh;
Then thro’ all the full-orbed splen­dor
Of the sun’s me­ri­di­an blaze,
There may shine the strange, new beau­ty
Of the Lord’s trans­fig­ured face.

Or it may be in the ev­en­ing—
Gray and som­ber is the sky,
Clouds around the sun­set ga­ther,
Far and dark the sha­dows lie;
When we long for rest and slum­ber,
And some ten­der thoughts of home
Fill the heart with vague, sad yearn­ing,
Then per­haps the Lord will come.

If He on­ly finds us rea­dy
In the morn­ing’s hap­py light,
In the strong and fie­ry noon­tide,
Or the com­ing of the night—
If He only finds us wait­ing,
Listening for His sud­den call,
Then His com­ing when we think not
Is the sweet­est hope of all.