He seeks the mountains where the olives grow,
The Lord of Glory, veiled in humble guise
His soul is shadowed with a coming woe,
The grief of all the world is in His eyes:
His spirit struggles in the dark caress
Of anguish, pain and utter loneliness.
He always loved the mountain tops, for there
Away from earth, He treads the mystic ways
And sees the vision of the Fairest Fair,
As Heaven dawns upon His raptured gaze;
The loneliness, the pain, the grief depart;
Surpassing gladness fills His Sacred Heart.
That day He stood upon the olive hill,
And Peter, James and John in wonder saw
The burning glories of the God-head fill
His soul with grandeur, and in holy awe
They fell upon the ground and cried for grace,
Lest they should die beholding God’s own Face.
As minor chords that sob from strings of gold
The Master speaks in accents sweet and sad:
The vision past, the chosen three behold
No one but Jesus and their souls are glad.
The awe, the splendor and the glory gone,
How sweet the face of Christ to look upon!