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.