There is a rock in a wea­ry land,
Its sha­dow falls on the burn­ing sand,
Inviting pil­grims as they pass,
To seek a shade in the wil­de­rness.
Then why will ye die? O why will ye die?
When the shel­ter­ing rock is so near by,
O why will ye die?

There is a well in a des­ert plain,
Its wa­ters call with en­treat­ing strain,
Ho, ev­ery thirst­ing, sin sick soul,
Come, free­ly drink, and thou shalt be whole.
Then why will ye die? O why will ye die?
When the liv­ing well is so near by,
O why will ye die?

A great fold stands with its por­tals wide,
The sheep astray on the mount­ain side;
The shep­herd climbs o’er mount­ains steep;
He’s search­ing now for His wan­der­ing sheep.
Then why will ye die? O why will ye die?
When the she­pherd’s fold is so near by,
O why will ye die?

There is a cross where the Sav­ior died;
His blood flowed out in a crim­son tide,
A sac­ri­fice for sins of men,
And free to all who will en­ter in.
Then why will ye die? O why will ye die?
When the crim­son cross is so near by,
O why will ye die?