1 Thy servant's sandals, Lord, are wet
With Jordan's wave but lately met,
And in that sacred river fall
The olden thoughts, the spirit's pall.
2 He stands upon the holy land,
And angels take his trustful hand;
The Jordan sanctifies his breast,
And Christ now leads him to his rest.
3 His rest? his battle! he must win
Fair Zion's gate through ranks of sin;
Why are these words, this solemn show,
If sin be not his deadly foe?
4 There gathers here no heavenly host;
No fiery tongues of Pentecost, --
No gentle dove with winnowing wings
The spirit to thy servant brings.
5 The still, small voice hath called him here,
And thus is God himself most near: --
My people, lift your hearts in prayer,
And keep your God forever there.