  Now Thou hast come to the end of Thy pilgrimage, Lord; Thy lamp glows red like a star at the dim lane’s turning: The bread and the wine of Thy supper are set in the shadows, And the gleam of Thy cottage calls toilers and wanderers home. In the feathery green of the hedges the chervil is blooming— Petals and wafers of scent, like the Host in a dream.... The night wind is singing the Mass of Thy living and dying, O Pilgrim of Love, Who at last hast come to Thy shrine. Thou art at peace. At Thy journey’s end Thou sittest, Thy cheek on Thy folded hands, before Thee the bread and wine, While far down the sky the yellow moon dips to her dying, And the big stars hang like lamps in the fading west. Lord of the journey’s end, if I too should stumble At last to the long lane’s turning, there may I see The beckon and gleam of the lamp that is hung in Thy cottage, Calling me home to my supper, my friends, and sleep. The Saints sup with Thee, there in the dusk and lamplight— Mary and Joseph and Peter and all my friends— With faces propped on their tired and toil-worn fingers, And kind eyes full of the peace of the journey’s end. To that feast of the Saints in Light, dear Lord, please bring me, Wash my dusty feet as on Maundy long ago; At the end of the day let me find my Lord at supper, And forget my toils with Him in the Breaking of Bread.
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