A pilgrim through this lonely world The bless?d 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 bless?d hill, To Zion's bless?d hill. By faith His boundless glories there Our wondering eyes behold; Those glories which eternal years Shall never all unfold; Shall never all unfold.
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