Behold, a stran­ger at the door!
He gent­ly knocks, has knocked be­fore,
Has wait­ed long, is wait­ing still:
You treat no oth­er friend so ill.

O love­ly at­ti­tude! He stands
With melt­ing heart and la­den hands;
O match­less kind­ness! and He shows
This match­less kind­ness to His foes.

But will He prove a friend in­deed?
He will; the ve­ry friend you need;
The friend of sinners—yes, ’tis He,
With gar­ments dyed on Cal­va­ry.

Oh love­ly at­ti­tude! He stands
With melt­ing heart and la­den hands:
O match­less kind­ness! and He shows
This match­less kind­ness to His foes.

Rise, touched with gra­ti­tude di­vine;
Turn out His en­emy and thine,
That hate­ful, hell-born mon­ster, sin,
And let the hea­ven­ly Stran­ger in.

If thou art poor—and poor thou art—
Lo! He has rich­es to im­part;
Not wealth, in which mean ava­rice rolls;
O bet­ter far, the wealth of souls.

Thou’rt blind, He’ll take the scales away,
And let in ev­er­last­ing day:
Naked thou art, but He shall dress
Thy blush­ing soul in right­eous­ness.

Art thou a weep­er? Grief shall fly,
For who can weep with Je­sus by?
No ter­ror shall thy hopes an­noy,
No tear—ex­cept the tear of joy.

Admit Him, for the hu­man breast
Ne’er en­ter­tained so kind a guest;
No mor­tal tongue their joys can tell
With whom He con­des­cends to dwell.

Admit Him, ere His an­ger burn,
His feet de­part, ne’er to re­turn;
Admit Him, or the hour’s at hand,
When at His door de­nied you’ll stand.

Yet know—nor of the terms com­plain—
If Je­sus comes, He comes to reign;
To reign, and with no par­tial say;
Thoughts must be slain that dis­ob­ey.

Sovereign of souls, Thou Prince of Peace,
O may Thy gen­tle reign in­crease:
Throw wide the door, each will­ing mind;
And be His em­pire all man­kind.