1 Without, awaiting at the threshold,
Is a stranger pleading in an undertone,
At noonday and the silent midnight slumb’ring,
At break of day and in the twilight gloom.
When hope is bright, or dark’ning clouds are low’ring;
Waiting since thy childhood’s early dawn,
The Prince of peace, the Father’s only Son,
Wills to make thy heart His royal throne.
2 Without, awaiting at the threshold,
Is a faithful Friend you’ve slighted o’er and o’er;
With pierced hands and thorn-marks on His forehead,
The human heart could ask for nothing more.
His visage, marred by Calv’ry’s cruel anguish,
Tells of love thy bosom hath not known;
The well-beloved, the Father’s chosen One—
Waiting still to claim thee for His own.
3 Without, awaiting at the threshold,
With His mantle dampened by the falling dew—
Another friend long since would have departed—
In patient love He lingers still for you.
He bore our grief and carried all our sorrows;
Let Him wait no longer there alone;
In penitence requite the Guest unknown;
Bid Him come, thy heart to make His throne.
Sinner, will you let Him in?
Turn, oh, turn Him not away.