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.

'Journey on, thou weary pilgrim,

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!