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?
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?
Wilt thou not undo the door?
DKnock
ing, knocking, who is there? EmWait
ing, waiting,
A7O
how fair! D'Tis
a Pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen be
Afore;
DAh!
my soul, for such a wonder GWilt
thou
Emnot
un
A7do
the
Ddoor?
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,
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,
Ever round the hinges twice.
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,
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,
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;
Wilt thou keep him 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;
Wilt thou keep him waiting there?
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;
Wilt thou keep him 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;
Wilt thou keep him waiting there?
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