I saw one wea­ry, sad, and torn,
With ea­ger steps press on the way,
Who long the hal­lowed cross had borne,
Still look­ing for the pro­mised day;
While ma­ny a line of grief and care,
Upon his brow, was fur­rowed there;
I asked what buoyed his spir­its up,
O this! said he—the bless­èd hope.

And one I saw, with sword and shield,
Who bold­ly braved the world’s cold frown,
And fought, un­yield­ing, on the field,
To win an ev­er­last­ing crown.
Though worn with toil, op­pressed by foes,
No mur­mur from his heart arose;
I asked what buoyed his spir­its up,
O this! said he—the bless­èd hope.

And there was one who left be­hind
The cher­ished friends of ear­ly years,
And hon­or, plea­sure, wealth re­signed,
To tread the path be­dewed with tears.
Through tri­als deep and con­flicts sore,
Yet still a smile of joy he wore;
I asked what buoyed his spir­its up,
O this! said he—the bless­èd hope.

While pilg­rims here we jour­ney on
In this dark vale of sin and gloom,
Through tri­bu­lation, hate, and scorn,
Or through the por­tals of the tomb,
Till our re­turn­ing King shall come
To take His ex­ile cap­tives home,
O! what can buoy the spir­its up?
’Tis this alone—the bless­èd hope.