Is it to me the Mas­ter sends
The mes­sage of His grace?
Can He de­sire with­in my door
A dwell­ing place?

Oh, if like that in Beth­any
My home might be so blest,
As to re­ceive the Lord Him­self,
The won­drous Guest,

How would swift love the place pre­pare
Where He should soon ab­ide,
And ev­ery toil and ev­ery care
Be glo­ri­fied!

And when His step the thresh­old crossed,
How sac­red ev­er­more
Would be this lit­tle room of mine,
This low­ly door!

Listen, my soul! He comes in­deed
To be a guest of thine;
Know that thy hu­man heart may be
His sac­red shrine;

Sacred and blest for­ev­er­more,
Since He will en­ter there;
Oh, let His dwell­ing be pre­pared
With faith and pray­er.

Wouldst thou un­to the Mas­ter’s will
Thine own will con­se­crate?
Look on His breth­ren poor and sad,
Without thy gate;

Hear then what ten­der words He speaks,
The Sin­less, Un­de­filed:
“Once I was poor, I dwelt on earth
A lit­tle child;

And ev­ery gen­tle min­is­try
Of love, whate’er it be,
When giv­en to My friend­less ones,
Is giv­en to Me.

Behold, He’s stand­ing at the door;
Hasten thy Lord to meet!
Bid Him come in that thou mayst kneel
Low at His feet.

There wilt thou learn, as Mary did,
The heav­en­ly path to choose.
O Sav­ior, en­ter! Let me not
Thy pre­sence lose!