Draw near, ye wea­ry, bowed
And brok­en heart­ed;
Ye on­ward tra­vel­ers to a peace­ful bourne;
Ye, from whose path the light has all de­part­ed;
Ye, who are left in so­li­tude to mourn:
Tho’ o’er your spi­rit has the storm cloud swept,
Sacred are sor­row’s tears since Je­sus wept.

The bright and spot­less Heir
Of end­less glo­ry,
Wept o’er the woes of those He came to save;
And an­gels won­dered when they heard the sto­ry,
That He who con­quered death,
Wept o’er the grave.
For ’twas not when His lone­ly watch He kept
In dark Geth­se­ma­ne, that Je­sus wept.

But with the friends He loved,
Whose hopes had per­ished,
The Sav­ior stood, while thro’ His bo­som rushed
A tide of sym­pa­thy for those He cher­ished,
And from His eyes the burn­ing
Dewdrops gushed:
And bend­ing o’er the tomb where La­za­rus slept,
In ago­ny of soul, then Je­sus wept.

Lo! Je­sus’ pow­er the sleep
Of death has brok­en,
And wiped the tear from sor­row’s
Drooping eye:
Look up, ye mourn­ers, hear what He has spok­en,
He that be­lieves on Me shall ne­ver die.
Thro’ faith and love your spi­rit shall be kept;
Hope bright­er grew on earth when Je­sus wept.