Waiting (poem)

I am waiting for the coming of my dear Redeemer Lord,
I am resting in His promise, in His precious, priceless Word;
And, although He seems to tarry, yet I know He'll surely come,
And take His own. His ransomed, to His bright and blissful home.

When I waken in the morning, ere the dawning of the day,
I lift my soul to His dear side, and watch and praise and pray;
For it may be in the morning. I shall hear His blessed voice,
Triumphant o'er the waves of time, bid all His own rejoice.

Then in the noon-tide splendor of the sun's meridian light,
When the busy world's surroundings need our armor should be bright,
'Tis sweet to turn aside our thoughts from the carking cares of life.
And think perhaps 'tis now He'll come 'mid the battle and the strife.

Then when the shadowy wing of night, spreads darkness on the land,
Ere soft slumbers close my senses, I yield all into His hand;
My body, soul and spirit—self—all I ask Him safe to keep,
And thinking on His precious blood, I fain would fall asleep;

For it may be while I'm sleeping the Archangel's trump will sound,
Then, oh, what a glorious waking, to be all in Jesus found!
Yes! but whether in the morning or the noon-tide or the night,
It reckes little to the Christian soul whose light is in His light.

For no matter when He comes—oh, what praise for truth like this!
When He comes, we shall be like Him, "we shall see Him as He is."

  —Caroline L. Elliott