Who is yonder weary pilgrim
From the desert now appears,
Coming home with cheerless footsteps,
And his cheek bedewed with tears?
Worn and tattered is his garment,
There is famine in his face:
Peace has made a vain endeavour
In his heart to find a place.
Hear him to himself bemoaning--
'Father! in Thy house make me
But a servant!--me, unworthy
Any more Thy son to be!'
What is this--this strain celestial
Now I hear above the sky?
Harps ten thousand times ten thousand
In sweet harmony on high?
Oh! the softly flowing echo
From the instruments of gold:
'Journey on, thou weary pilgrim,
Welcome home from deserts cold!
The inhabitants of Light-land
Now with joy thy spirit greet:
See, the robe is ready for thee--
Soon shalt thou the Father meet.
Through the desert journey on;
Though thy face is marked with sorrow,
Song for weeping cometh soon:
Heaven's eyes watch every footstep,
Haste thee on, O sorely tried!
Flow, ye tears, a little longer,
Till at home ye shall be dried.'
Who is He that brings the garment
Beautiful as light of dawn?
Kisses him, the weary lost one,
To His bosom closely drawn?
Loud and louder swells the music
Of each glowing golden string:
Little soul, art thou so precious
In the palace of the King?
Yes, there will be joy in heaven,
If from evil ways thou flee
There is always, always welcome
In the Father's house for thee:
Leave the husks and vanished shadows,
And a world of falsehood spurn:
Thine the fulness and affection,
Thine the home: return! return!