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| 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. | Songs of the Century #119 (1900) |
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