I’m kneeling at the threshold, so weary, faint, and sore,
Waiting for the dawning, the opening of the door;
I’m waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come
To His all glorious presence, the gladness of His home.
Kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint and sore;
Kneeling at the threshold, my hand is at the door.
A weary path I’ve traveled, ’mid darkness, storm and strife;
Bearing many a burden, and struggling for my life;
But now the morn is breaking, my toil will soon be o’er;
I’m kneeling at the threshold, my hand is on the door.
Methinks I hear the voices of loved ones as they stand,
Singing in the sunshine, in that fair sinless land:
Oh, would that I were with them, amid their shining throng,
And mingling in their worship, and joining in their song!
The friends that started with me have entered long ago;
One by one they left me still struggling with the foe;
Their pilgrimage was shorter, their triumph surer won,
How lovingly they’ll hail me, when all my toil is done.
With them the blessèd angels, that know no grief or sin,
Standing by the portals, prepared to let me in;
O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure—Thy time and way are best;
But I’m all worn and weary; O Father, bid me rest!