No track is on the sun­ny sky,
No foot­prints on the air;
Jesus hath gone: the face of earth
Is de­so­late and bare.

The bless­èd feet of Mary’s Son,
They tread the streets no more;
His soul-con­vert­ing voice gives not
Its mu­sic as before.

The Up­per Room is Heav’n on earth;
Within its pre­cincts lie
All that earth has of faith, or hope,
Or heav’n-born cha­ri­ty.

The eye of God looks down on them,
His love is cen­tered there;
His Spir­it yearns to be o’er­come
By their sweet strife of pray­er.

Th’eter­nal Son takes up the pray­er
Upon His roy­al throne;
The Son His child­ren’s voic­es hears,
The Sire His eq­ual Son.

The Spir­it hears, and He con­sents
His mis­sion to ful­fill;
For what is asked hath ev­er been
His own eter­nal will.

Ten days and nights in acts di­vine
Of aw­ful love were spent,
Apostles and dis­ci­ples prayed
The Spir­it might be sent.

The joy of an­gels grew and grew
To hear their won­drous pray­er,
And the di­vine Com­pla­cence stooped
To feed His glo­ry there.

For ev­er com­ing did He seem,
For ev­er on the wing;
His chos­en an­gels round His throne
Now gazed, now ceased to sing.

How beau­ti­ful, how pass­ing speech,
The Dove did then ap­pear,
As the hour of His hu­mi­li­ty
At pray­er­ful word drew near!

The hour was come; the wings of love
By His own will were freed:
The hour was come; the eter­nal Three
His mis­sion had de­creed.

Then for His love of worth­less men,
His love of pray­er’s worth,
His beau­te­ous wings the Dove out­spread
And winged His flight to earth.

O won­drous flight! He left not Heav’n,
Though earth’s low fields He won,
But in the bo­som still re­posed
Of Fa­ther and of Son.

O flight! O bless­èd flight of love!
Let me Thy mer­cies share;
Grant it, sweet Dove, for my poor soul
Was in their lift­ed pray­er.