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.
The cup of water given for you
still holds the freshness of your grace;
yet long these multitudes to view
the true compassion of your face.
O Master, from the mountainside,
make haste to heal these hearts of pain;
among these restless throngs abide,
and tread the city's streets again--
till all the world shall learn your love
and follow where your feet have trod;
till glorious from your heaven above,
shall come the city of our God.
