Knocking, Knocking

Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
‘Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kindly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah! My soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?
Wilt thou 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,
Ever round the hinges twine.


Knocking, knocking, what! Still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yes, the wounded hand still knocketh,
And beneath the thorn-wreath’d hair,
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Saviour waiting there;
Wilt thou keep him waiting there?

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