Waiting, while I travel onward,
For the pilgrim’s promised rest,
For the crown and joy eter­nal,
In the city of the blest.
Earth, with all its pleasant voices,
Cannot stay my toil-worn feet;
Love the purest—hope the brightest—
Hath no promise half so sweet.

Waiting till each cross that meets us
Doth its office work of love;
Making every bur­den lighter,
Turning every thought above.
Waiting, after nights of waking;
After days of toil and pain,
Leaving all my doubts for­ev­er,
Counting all my losses gain.

Waiting, till the Bridegroom cometh,
When the bride arrayed in white,
Shall behold the worlds of glo­ry
Fashioned for the sons of light.
Oh, the loved ones that will meet us,
When we reach the other shore,
Oh, the bright ones that will greet us,
When the pilgrimage is o’er.

In the light of that fair country
Ever falling on my way,
Sorrows cast but feeble shadows,
Night is joyous as the day.
Thus my waiting only seemeth
Like love’s vigil, full of trust,
For I know ere long He cometh—
He the lovely and the just.

Let me wait, then, ’mid the tempest,
For the voice that whispers peace,
Wait within the home of sorrow
For the struggling soul’s release.
Waiting—this is all life’s mission
On the Prince of Life to wait,
He who toils with patient waiting,
Is not far from Hea­ven’s gate.