When the wea­ry tasks of the day are done,
And our spi­rits wel­come the set­ting sun,
In the twi­light hush, lo!
The good Shep­herd stands, call­ing, call­ing:

Refrain

I am the door, I am the door;
You are bruis­èd, ye are thirs­ty;
Come, be healed and re­freshed,
And go in and out, and find pas­ture.

Oh, the path was rough, and our hearts are sore,
For we lost the way, with the load we bore;
Blessèd sha­dows, fall, for
The good Shep­herd stands, call­ing, call­ing:

Refrain

Oh, the blind­ing dust and the cru­el thorn!
Is there room for such a torn, black­ened form?
Hark! I hear my name, for
The good Shep­herd stands, call­ing, call­ing:

Refrain

Oh, He knows the thorns, for they pierced His brow,
Yet He loved men then, and He loves us now,
Spite of stain and sin: still
The good Shep­herd stands, call­ing, call­ing:

Refrain