Comes any good from Na­za­reth?
The scorn­ful chal­lenge as of old
Is flung on many a jeer­ing breath
From clois­tered cells and marts of gold.

Comes any good from Na­za­reth?
Behold, the migh­ty Na­za­rene,
The Lord of life, the Lord of death,
Through war­ring ages walks se­rene.

One touch upon His gar­ment’s fringe
Still heals the hurt of bit­ter years.
Before Him yet the de­mons cringe,
He gives the wine of joy for tears.

O city of the Car­pen­ter,
Upon the hill slope old and gray,
The world among its pain and stir
Turns yearn­ing eyes upon thee to­day.

For He who dwelt in Na­za­reth,
And wrought with toil of hand and brain,
Alone gives vic­to­ry to faith
Until the day He come again.