When He Comes

A poem by Fay Inchfawn

"When He comes!
My sweetest 'When'!"

Thus may it be (I thought) at some day's close,
Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose
Breathes forth its incense. May He find me there,
In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer,
In some sweet garden place,
To catch the first dear wonder of His Face!

Or, in my room above,
In silent meditation of His love,
My soul illumined with a rapture rare.
It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes
Might glimpse Him coming in the Eastern skies,
And be caught up to meet Him in the air.

But now! Ah, now, the days
Rush by their hurrying ways!
No longer know I vague imaginings,
For every hour has wings.
Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I say,
All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day,
Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I am --
Tending my household; stirring gooseberry jam;
Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose,
With puzzled forehead patching some one's clothes;
Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and run,
From early dawn till setting of the sun."

And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go,
Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so.

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