A pilgrim through this lonely world,
The blessèd Saviour passed;

A mourner all his life was He,
A dying Lamb at last.

That tender heart that felt for all,
For all its life-blood gave;
It found on earth no resting-place,
Save only in the grave.

Such was our Lord; and shall we fear

The cross, with all its scorn?

Or love a faithless evil world,

That wreathed his brow with thorn?

No! facing all its frowns or smiles,
Like him, obedient still,

We homeward press thro' storm or calm,
To Zion's blessèd hill.

Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying, In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted because they are not.