Scripture Verse

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 2 Timothy 4:7

Introduction

portrait
Joseph Thomas (1791–1835)
The White Pilgrim

Words: John P. El­lis, in The Old Bap­tist Hymn Book, ed­it­ed by R. Knight & John Till­ing­hast (Pro­vi­dence, Rhode Is­land: 1842).

Music: Mis­sion­ary (Com­muck) Tho­mas Com­muck, In­di­an Me­lo­dies (New York: G. Lane & C. B. Tip­pett, 1845) (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tune:

  • Sunne ano­ny­mous, pos­si­bly Swed­ish (🔊 pdf nwc)

If you know where to get a good pic­ture of El­lis or Com­muck (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),

Background

The sub­ject of these lyr­ics was tra­vel­ing preach­er Jo­seph Tho­mas (1791–1835). He was known as the White Pil­grim be­cause he dressed en­tirely in white, and rode a white horse, with (some say) white sad­dle bags and white boots.

Recordings of this song in­clude Bob Dyl­an’s The Lone Pil­grim, on his 1993 al­bum World Gone Wrong, and a ren­di­tion by Doc Wat­son, on his 1993 al­bum The Doc Wat­son Fa­mi­ly.

The lyri­cs be­low are from The High­way Hym­nal, ed­it­ed by Is­ai­ah Reid and George L. Brown (Ne­va­da, Io­wa: High­way Off­ice, 1886), num­ber 121, alt.

Lyrics

I came to the spot where
The white pil­grim lay,
And pen­sive­ly stood by the tomb;
When in a low whis­per
I heard some­thing say:
“How sweet­ly I sleep here alone.

“The tem­pest may howl, and
The wild thun­ders roll,
And ga­ther­ing storms may arise;
Yet calm are my feel­ings,
At peace is my soul,
The tears are all wiped from my eyes.

“Go tell all the friends that
To me were so dear,
To weep not for one that is gone.
The hand that once led me
Through scenes dark and drear,
Has sweetly con­duct­ed me home.

“The cause of my mas­ter
Propelled me from home,
I bade my com­pan­ion fare­well;
I left my sweet child­ren,
Who for me now mourn,
In far dist­ant re­gions to dwell.

“I wan­dered an ex­ile
And stran­ger be­low,
To pub­lish sal­va­tion abroad,
The trump of the Gos­pel
Endeavored to blow,
Inviting poor sin­ners to God.

But when among stran­gers,
And far from my home
No kin­dred or re­la­tive nigh,
I met the con­tag­ion
And sunk in the tomb,
My spir­it to man­sions on high.

HIS WIDOW

I called at the house of
The mourn­er be­low,
I en­tered the man­sion of grief;
The tears of deep sor­row
Most free­ly did flow—
I tried, but could give no re­lief.

There sat a lone wi­dow,
Dejected and sad,
By trou­bles and sor­row op­pressed;
And here were the child­ren
In mourn­ing ar­rayed,
And sighs were es­cap­ing each breast.

I spoke to the wi­dow
Concerning her grief,
I asked her the cause of her woe;
And why there was no­thing
To give her re­lief,
Or soothe her deep sor­row be­low.

She looked at her child­ren,
Then looked up­on me,
That look I can ne­ver forget,
More elo­quent far than
A se­raph can be,
It spoke of the tri­als she met.

“The hand of af­flict­ion
Falls hea­vi­ly now;
I’m left with my child­ren to mourn;
The friend of my youth now
Lies si­lent and low,
In yon­der cold grave­yard alone!

“But why should I mourn, or
Feel bound to com­plain,
Or think that my for­tune is hard?
I met with af­flict­ion—
’Tis tru­ly his gain—
He’s en­tered the joy of his Lord!

His work is com­plet­ed,
And fin­ished be­low;
His last tear is fall­en, I trust;
He preached his last ser­mon
And met his last foe;
Has con­quered, and now is at rest!