Home, kin­dred, friends and coun­try, these
Are things with which we ne­ver part;
From clime to clime, o’er land and seas,
We bear them with us in our heart;
And yet ’tis hard to feel re­signed
When these, all these, are left be­hind.

But when the pil­grim’s staff we take,
And fol­low Christ from shore to shore,
Gladly for Him we all for­sake,
Press on, and on­ly look be­fore:
Though hum­bled na­ture mourns her loss,
The spir­it glo­ries in the Cross.

It is no sin, like man, to weep,
E’en Je­sus wept o’er La­za­rus, dead;
Or yearn for home be­yond the deep,
He had not where to lay His head:
The pa­tri­ot’s tears will He con­demn,
Who wept o’er lost Je­ru­sa­lem?

Take up your cross, and say, Fare­well!
Go forth witho­ut the camp to Him,
Who left Heav’n’s throne with men to dwell,
Who died His mur­der­ers to re­deem:
Oh! tell His name in ev­ery ear;
Doubt not—the dead them­selves will hear;

Hear, and come forth to life anew,
Then, while the Gen­tile courts they fill,
Shall not your Sav­ior’s words stand true?
Home, kin­dred, friends and coun­try still,
In earth’s last de­sert you shall find,
Yet lose not those you left be­hind.