In his master's steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted.
In his master's steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted.
High Flight Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds-and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace, Where never the lark, nor even eagle flew- And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high, untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
I long for scenes where man has never trod. . . There to abide with my Creator, God.
I trod as quiet as the night.
The feet of the humblest may walk in the field Where the feet of the Holiest trod, This, then, is the marvel to mortals revealed.
You and I have trod the backward way
To the happy heart of yesterday,
To the love we felt in ages past.
Your lost friends are not dead, but gone before, advanced a stage or two upon that road which you must travel in the steps they trod.
Such a life is very fine,
But it's not so nice as mine:
You must often as you trod,
Have wearied not to be abroad.
Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod.
Through the strait pass of suffering --
The Martyrs -- even -- trod.
I'm not invited. I'm not on the A list, haven't been on it in 20 years and my feet have never trod its red fluffy carpets.
Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.
Here we see hypocrites, plodding forever around in their circle And now we saw a people decked with paint, Who trod their circling way with tear and groan And slow, slow steps, seeming subdued and faint They all wore cloaks, with deep hoods forward thrown Over their eyes, and shaped in fashion quite Like the great cowls the monks wear at Cologne Outwardly they were gilded dazzling bright, But all within was lead, and weighed thereby, King Frederick's copes would have seemed feather-light. O weary mantle for eternity Once more we turned to the left, and by their side Paced on, intent upon their mournful cry.
Going as if he trod upon eggs.
The intense perfumes of the wild herbs as we trod them underfoot made us feel almost drunk.
Preserve my soul, for *I have trod Heb.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories