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;
Yes, the pierced hand still knocketh,
And beneath the crowned hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Saviour, waiting there.
Mrs. H.B. Stowe, arr./Geo. F. Root