Classic Poem

The Lord is in his Holy Place
In all things near and far:
Shekinah of the snow-flake, he,
And Glory of the star,
And Secret of the April land
That stirs the field to flowers,
Whose little tabernacles rise
To hold him through the hours.

He hides himself within the love
Of those whom we love best;
The smiles and tones that make our homes
Are shrines by him possessed;
He tents within the lonely heart,
And shepherds every thought;
We find him not by seeking long,—
We lose him not, unsought.

The listening ear doth Sinai hear,
Wherever we may be;
‘Thy will be done!’ and lo, we stand
In dim Gethsemane!
O everywhere his Holy Place,
If love unseal the eyes,
And everywhere the waiting Face
To welcome and surprise!