Classic Poem

The Lord is in his Holy Place
In all things near and far!
Shekinah of the snowflake, 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.

Our art may build its Holy Place,
Our feet on Sinai stand,
But Holiest of Holies knows
No tread, no touch of hand;
The listening soul makes Sinai still
Wherever we may be,
And in the vow, ‘Thy will be done!’
Lies all Gethsemane.