Behind My Father'S House There Lies A Little Grassy Brae, Whose Face My Childhood'S Busy Feet Ran Often Up In Play, Whence On The Chimneys I Looked Down In Wonderment Alway. Around The House, Where'Er I Turned, Great Hills Closed Up The View; The Town 'Midst Their Converging Roots Was Clasped By Rivers Two; From One Hill To Another Sprang The Sky'S Great Arch Of Blue. Oh! How I Loved To Climb Their Sides, And In The Heather Lie; The Bridle On My Arm Did Hold The Pony Feeding By; Beneath, The Silvery Streams; Above, The White Clouds In The Sky. And Now, In Wandering About, WheNe'er I See A Hill, A Childish Feeling Of Delight Springs In My Bosom Still; And Longings For The High Unknown Follow And Flow And Fill. For I Am Always Climbing Hills, And Ever Passing On, Hoping On Some High Mountain Peak To Find My Father'S Throne; For Hitherto I've Only Found His Footsteps In The Stone. And In My Wanderings I Have Met A Spirit Child Like Me, Who Laid A Trusting Hand In Mine, So Fearlessly And Free, That So Together We Have Gone, Climbing Continually. Upfolded In A Spirit Bud, The Child Appeared In Space, Not Born Amid The Silent Hills, But In A Busy Place; And Yet In Every Hill We See A Strange, Familiar Face. For They Are Near Our Common Home; And So In Trust We Go, Climbing And Climbing On And On, Whither We Do Not Know; Not Waiting For The Mournful Dark, But For The Dawning Slow. Clasp My Hand Closer Yet, My Child,-- A Long Way We Have Come! Clasp My Hand Closer Yet, My Child,-- For We Have Far To Roam, Climbing And Climbing, Till We Reach Our Heavenly Father'S Home.