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.