A pilgrim through this lonely world,

The blessed Saviour passed;

A mourner all his life was he,

A dying Lamb at last.

2 That tender heart which felt for all,

For us its life-blood gave;

It found on earth no resting-place,

Save only in the grave!

3 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?

4 No; facing all its frowns or smiles,

Like him, obedient still,

We homeward press, through storm or calm,

To Zion’s blessed hill.