Where cross the crowded ways of life,
Where sound the cries of race and clan,
Above the noise of selfish strife,
We hear your 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 your tears.
From tender childhood's helplessness,
From woman's grief, man's burdened toil,
From famished souls, from sorrow's stress,
your heart has never known recoil.
The cup of water given for you
Stills holds the freshness of your grace;
Yet long these multitudes to see
The sweet compassion of yourface.
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 your love,
And follow where your feet have trod;
Till glorious from your heaven above,
Shall come the City of our God.
