Long have I waited their coming, the men of the far-lying mist-hills
Gathered about their fires and under the kindly rains.
Not to the blazing sweep of Thy desert, O Lord, have they turned them;
Evermore back to the mist-hills, back to the rain-kissed plains.
Long through the ages I waited the children of men, but they came not;
Only God’s silent centuries holding their watch sublime.
Gaunt and wrinkled and gray was the withering face of Thy desert:
All in Thine own good time; O Lord, in Thine own good time.
Lo! Thou hast spoken the word, and Thy children come bringing the waters
Loosed from their mountain keep in the thrall of each sentinel hill.