He is speaking to the North, “O come!”
He is calling to the South, “Withhold no more!”
Come, O come, to where the King is calling,
Sending out a wind to wake the sleepers and the poor.

There is nothing that can bar your way,
Though the breaking may be blood upon the sand.
Lift your hearts, for hark, the wind is calling,
Breaking down the barriers, however high they stand.

There are rivers running strong between,
There are watches where the stars are never still,
Come, though, come, to where the King is calling,
Calling for a people in a City on a Hill.

In the tumult of a world of steel,
There's the whisper of a wind upon the street.
Rise, and come, though long and hard the journey,
Yonder is the City where the South and North shall meet.

1947

Read the book: Water at the Roots: Poems and Insights of a Visionary Farmer

This poem is taken from a collection of Philip Britts's writings, Water at the Roots: Poems and Insights of a Visionary Farmer.