A pilgrim through this lonely world
The blessèd Sav­ior passed;
A mourner all His life was He,
A dying Lamb at last,
A dying Lamb at last.

That tender heart that felt for all,
For all its life blood gave;
It found on earth no resting place
Save only in the grave,
Save only in the grave.

Such was our Lord; and shall we fear
The cross with all its scorn?
Or love a faithless, evil world,
That wreathed His brow with thorn,
That wreathed His brow with thorn?

No! facing all its frowns or smiles,
Like Him, obedient, still,
We homeward press through storm or calm
To Zion’s blessèd hill,
To Zion’s blessèd hill.

By faith His boundless glories there
Our wondering eyes behold;
Those glories which eter­nal years
Shall ne­ver all unfold;
Shall ne­ver all unfold.