1 Who knocketh now at the wicket gate?
Who standeth there in the twilight gray?
A poor wand’rer lone; it is late-- so late;
The sunlight has fled from the dying day;
My locks are so damp with the falling dews,
Pray open to me, for the night pursues.
2 Where hast thou been all the long, long day?
Why lose the path? It was plain to thee.
I wandered in search of a better way,
It seemed, ever seemed very near to me;
Now weary I come to the wicket gate,
And venture to knock, tho’ the hour be late.
3 What fruit hast thou from the fields so fair?
What golden sheaves that thy hands have bound?
My heart is oppressed with grief and care,
The joy that I sought I have never found;
Naught, naught do I bring from my wand’rings wide,
But withered, pale leaves at the eventide.
4 What plea hast thou for thy slighted Lord,
If now His ear He would bend to thee?
The promise He left in His Holy Word,
His blood, precious blood He has shed for me.
O poor wand’ring one from the world of sin,
In Jesus’ dear name, weary one, come in.