O, What though our feet may not tread where Christ trod,
Nor our ears hear the dashing of Galilee’s flood,
Nor our eyes see the cross that he bowed him to bear,
Nor our knees press Gethsemane’s garden of prayer!
Yet, Loved of the Father! thy spirit is near
To the meek and the lowly and penitent here;
And the voice of thy love is the same, even now,
As at Bethany’s tomb, or on Olivet’s brow.
O, the Outward has gone, but in glory and power
The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart’s secret altar is burning, the same.