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at the beautiful gate.
When Thou bendest hither Thy hallowing eye,
My narrow work-room seems vast and high,
Its dingy ceiling a rainbow dome:—
Stand ever thus at my wide-swung door,
And toil will be toil no more.
My narrow work-room seems vast and high,
Its dingy ceiling a rainbow dome:—
Stand ever thus at my wide-swung door,
And toil will be toil no more.
Through the rosy portals of morning,
Now the tides of sunshine flow.
O'er the blossoming earth and the glistening sea,
The praise Thou inspirest rolls back to Thee:
Its tones through the infinite arches go;
Yet, crippled and dumb, behold me wait,
Dear Lord, at the Beautiful Gate.
Now the tides of sunshine flow.
O'er the blossoming earth and the glistening sea,
The praise Thou inspirest rolls back to Thee:
Its tones through the infinite arches go;
Yet, crippled and dumb, behold me wait,
Dear Lord, at the Beautiful Gate.
I wait for Thy hand of healing,—
For vigor and hope in Thee.
Open wide the door,—let me feel the sun,—
Let me touch Thy robe:—I shall rise and run
Through Thy happy universe, safe and free,
Where in and out Thy beloved go,
Nor want nor wandering know.
For vigor and hope in Thee.
Open wide the door,—let me feel the sun,—
Let me touch Thy robe:—I shall rise and run
Through Thy happy universe, safe and free,
Where in and out Thy beloved go,
Nor want nor wandering know.
Thyself art the Door, Most Holy!
By Thee let me enter in!
By Thee let me enter in!
