Home, kindred, friends, and country, these

Are things with which we never part;

From clime to clime, o'er land and seas,

We bear them with us in our heart:

And yet 'tis hard to feel resign'd,

When these, all these, are left behind.

But when the pilgrim's staff we take,

And follow Christ from shore to shore,

Gladly for Him we all forsake,

Press on, and only look before:

Though humbled Nature mourns her loss,

The spirit glories in the Cross.

It is no sin, like man, to weep,

Even Jesus wept o'er Lazarus, dead;

Or yearn for home beyond the deep,

He had not where to lay His head:

The patriot's tears will He condemn,

Who wept o'er lost Jerusalem?

Take up your cross, and say "Farewell!"

Go forth without the camp to Him,

Who left heaven's throne with men to dwell,

Who died His murderers to redeem:

Oh! tell His name in every ear;

Doubt not,--the dead themselves will hear;

Hear, and come forth to life anew.

Then, while the Gentile courts they fill,

Shall not your Saviour's words stand true?

Home, kindred, friends, and country still,

In earth's last desert you shall find,

Yet lose not those you left behind.