Not al­ways on the mount may we
Rapt in the heav’n­ly vi­sion be:
The shores of thought and feel­ing know
The Spir­it’s tid­al ebb and flow.

Lord it is good abid­ing here,
We cry, the heav’n­ly pre­sence near:
The vi­sion van­ish­es, our eyes
Are lift­ed in­to va­cant skies.

Yet hath one such ex­alt­ed hour
Upon the soul re­deem­ing pow­er,
And its strength, through af­ter days,
We tra­vel our ap­point­ed ways,

Till all the low­ly vale grows bright,
Transfigured in re­mem­bered light,
And in un­tir­ing souls we bear
The fresh­ness of the up­per air.

The mount for vi­sion: but be­low
The paths of dai­ly duty go,
And nob­ler life there­in shall own
The pat­tern on the mount­ain shown.