Where cross the crowded ways of life,

Where sound the cries of race and clan,

Above the noise of selfish strife,

We hear Thy voice, O Son of man!

In haunts of wretchedness and need,

On shadowed thresholds dark with fears,

From paths where hide the lures of greed,

We catch the vision of Thy tears.

From tender childhood’s helplessness,

From woman’s grief, man’s burdened toil,

From famished souls, from sorrow’s stress,

Thy heart has never known recoil.

The cup of water given for Thee

Still holds the freshness of Thy grace;

Yet long these multitudes to see

The sweet compassion of Thy face.

O Master, from the mountain-side,

Make haste to heal these hearts of pain,

Among these restless throngs abide,

O tread the city’s streets again,

Till sons of men shall learn Thy love

And follow where Thy feet have trod;

Till glorious from Thy heaven above

Shall come the city of our God.