Knocking, knocking, who is there? Waiting, waiting, oh, 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?
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 twine.
Knocking, knocking—what! still there? Waiting, waiting, grand and fair; Yea, the wounded hand still knocketh, And beneath the thorn-wreathed hair Beam the patient eyes, so tender, Of thy Savior waiting there.
