Falls the footsteps of the Lord.
On the battlefield He stands,
Gifts of life are in His hands.
Yes, and is His Table spread.
Ere the feet of life have fled.
He Himself has set the feast;
He is Host, and He is Priest.
To the lips that death-pains twist,
Lifts He His own Eucharist.
Even as they take and eat,
Nearer, nearer sound His feet.
Lo! the dream-feast set in lore,
Is the real feast above.
Grace I. Gibson.
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