Knocking, knock­ing, who is there?
Waiting, wait­ing, oh, how fair!
’Tis a pil­grim, strange and king­ly,
Never such was seen be­fore,
Ah, my soul, for such a won­der,
Wilt thou not un­do the door?

Knocking, knock­ing! still He’s there:
Waiting, wait­ing, won­drous fair!
But the door is hard to open,
For the weeds and ivy-vine,
With their dark and cling­ing ten­drils,
Ever round the hinges twine.

Knocking, knock­ing—what! still there?
Waiting, wait­ing, grand and fair;
Yes, the pierc­èd hand still knock­eth,
And be­neath the crown­èd hair
Beam the pa­tient eyes, so ten­der,
Of thy Sav­ior wait­ing there.