Long I waited for that whispered summons to my soul

come to Me unto the summit...that shall be your goal.

That mountain is a holy place, a place I always knew

that I would hear, "Come up to Me and I will meet with you."

O, mount of God, I see the mist all around You rise

beckoning my soul to climb and gaze upon its Prize.

Air is still, but echoes with the ardor in my cry...

Jesus, lest I now grow faint, guide me with Your eye.

The sun of noon burns jealously all that is not bright

but hidden in the cleft of rock Your presence fills my sight.

Be still, O my soul; let not eye grow dim

"This is My beloved Son; hear now only Him."

Mercies of ascent may all be allowed

but I will not stop 'til I enter that cloud.

Nothing ever shall keep me from this race,

for just ahead the Lover waits to speak face-to-face.

by

Sarah Maitland