The seventh Mountain of Spices was a very lovely place indeed. Like the Mountain of Cinnamon it was clothed with trees, the only difference being that here on the Mountain of Frankincense, the trees were much taller. They were gracious, stately gums and their trunks were beautifully and most variously colored, ranging from silvery grey and ivory white or cream, to palest lemon, misty blue, lavender, golden tawn, rust red, and rich brown. In places there were even great streaks of crimson. But the leaves of the tree were even more beautiful. They were very long and very narrow, and they hung down in great festoons from the slender, swaying stems, so that from a distance they looked like loosely flowing veils of silver hair. Every breeze and even the softest breath of wind stirred these lovely trees and set all the leaves whispering together and rippling like waves on the sea.

As she watched them, Grace and Glory thought to herself that she had never seen anything quite so gloriously responsive as those countless swaying stems and leaves. It was almost startling to notice the mysterious union which seemed to exist between them and the light summer wind, as though invisible fingers were gently sweeping a keyboard of leaves and liberating whole harmonies of intricate, rhythmic motion.

As she watched and listened, she thought she heard the harmony of motion turned into sound and a song went singing through the trees.

Faith is response to love’s dear call,

Of love’s dear face the sight;

To do love’s bidding now is all

That gives the heart delight.

To love thy voice and to reply

“Lord, here am I.”

As blows the wind through summer trees,

And all the leaves are stirred,

O Spirit move as thou dost please,

My heart yields at thy word.

Faith hears thee calling from beyond

And doth respond.

What thou dost will—that I desire,

Through me let it be done,

Thy will and mine in love’s own fire

Are welded into one.

“Lord, I believe!” Nay, rather say,

“Lord, I obey.”

For a long time after that she sat in perfect silence, too absorbed to notice anything else. At last the King’s voice broke in on her reverie:

“You are admiring the beautiful, unstudied, unresisting responsiveness of my trees of Frankincense, Grace and Glory?”

“Yes,” said she in a tone of great delight. “It is a perfect joy to watch them. I never before saw anything comparable to them. The slightest and gentlest breath of the wind sets them all moving as though in harmony with chords of inaudible music.”