Where cross the crowded ways of life,
where sound the cries of race and clan,
above the noise of selfish strife,
we hear Thy voice, O Son of Man.
In haunts of wretchedness and need,
on shadowed thresholds fraught with fears,
from paths where hide the lures of greed,
we catch the vision of Thy tears.
The cup of water given for you
still holds the freshness of your grace;
yet long these multitudes to view
the sweet compassion of Thy face.
O Master, from the mountainside,
make haste to heal these hearts of pain;
among these restless throngs abide;
O tread the city’s streets again;
Till sons of men shall learn Thy love,
and follow where Thy feet have trod;
till glorious, from Thy heaven above
shall come the city of our God.