Who are these that come from far,
Swifter than a fly­ing cloud!
Thick as flock­ing doves they are,
Eager in pur­suit of God:
Trembling as the storm draws nigh,
Hastening to their place of rest,
See them to the win­dows fly,
To the ark of Je­su’s breast!

Who are these but sin­ners poor,
Conscious of their lost es­tate,
Sin-sick souls, who for their cure
On the good Phy­si­cian wait;
Fallen who be­wail their fall,
Proffered mer­cy who em­brace,
Listening to the Gos­pel call,
Longing to be saved by grace.

For his mate the tur­tle moans,
For his God the sin­ner sighs;
Hark, the mu­sic of their groans,
Humble groans that pierce the skies
Surely God their sor­rows hears,
Every ac­cent, every look,
Treasures up their gra­cious tears,
Notes their suf­fer­ings in His book.

He who hath their cure be­gun,
Will He now des­pise their pain?
Can He leave His work un­done,
Bring them to the birth in vain?
No; we all who seek shall find,
We who ask shall all re­ceive,
Be to Christ in spir­it joined,
Free from sin for­ev­er live.