1 O wanderer from God, come home,
No longer stray in foreign lands,
With worn and bleeding feet to roam
O'er barren paths of shifting sands;
Dark clouds are gathering above,
The storm will break in fury wild,
But hark! there speaks a voice of love,
"Come to thy Fahter, weary child."
2 Come where the feast of grace is spread,
And let thy days of want be o'er.
Partaking of the living bread,
Sin's bitter hunger feel no more;
The tones of mercy now invite,
Yield to their accents sweet and mild,
Though marked by evil's bane and blight,
Come thy Father, weary child.
3 Salvation's joy may still be thine,
If thou wilt cease its gift to spurn,
And rest awaits thee, sweet, divine,
If from thy wand'rings thou wilt turn;
Arrayed i pure robes thou shalt be.
Though deeply now thou art defiled.
A Father's arms will welcome thee,
O come to him thou weary child.
4 The harps of heaven gladly ring,
O'er each repentant, pardoned soul,
While saints exultant anthems sing,
And Christ's redeeming pow'r extol;
Let strains of joy for thee ascend.
With God's pur kingdom reconciled.
Win light and life that never end,
Come to thy Father, weary child.