A pilgrim through this lonely world,
The blessed Saviour passed,
A mourner all His life was He,
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.

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?

No! facing all its frowns and smiles,
Like him obedient still,
We homeward press through storm or calm,
To Zion’s blessed hill.

Dead to the world with Him who died,
To win our hearts, our love,
We, risen with our risen Head,
In spirit dwell above.