1
Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
’Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder
Wilt thou not undo the door?
Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
’Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder
Wilt thou not undo the door?
2
Knocking, knocking, still He’s there,
Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair;
But the door is hard to open,
For the weeds and ivy vine
With their dark and clinging tendrils
Ever round the hinges twice.
Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair;
But the door is hard to open,
For the weeds and ivy vine
With their dark and clinging tendrils
Ever round the hinges twice.
3
Knocking, knocking what! still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yea, the wounded hand still knocketh,
And beneath the thorn-wreath’d hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Savior waiting there.
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yea, the wounded hand still knocketh,
And beneath the thorn-wreath’d hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Savior waiting there.
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