Mark that pil­grim—low­ly bend­ing,
At the shrine of pray­er as­cend­ing,
Praise and sighs to­ge­ther blend­ing
From his lips in mourn­ful strain;
Glowing with sin­cere con­tri­tion,
And with child­like, blest sub­mis­sion,
Ever ris­eth this p­eti­tion:
Jesus, come—O come to reign.

List again—the low earth sigh­eth,
And the blood of mar­tyrs cri­eth
From its bo­som, where there li­eth
Millions up­on mill­ions slain—
Lord, how long ere, Thy word giv­en,
All the wicked shall be driv­en
From the earth by bolts of Heav­en?
Jesus, come—O come to reign.

Kingdoms now are reel­ing, fall­ing;
Nations lie in woe ap­pall­ing,
On their sages vain­ly call­ing
All these won­ders to ex­plain;
While the slain around are ly­ing,
God’s own lit­tle flock is sigh­ing,
And in se­cret places cry­ing,
Jesus, come—O come to reign.

Here the wick­ed live se­cure­ly,
Of to­mor­row boast­ing sure­ly,
While from those who’re walk­ing pure­ly,
They ex­tort dis­hon­est gain:
Yea, the meek are bur­dened, driv­en;
Want and care to them are giv­en;
But they lift the cry to Heav­en,
Jesus, come—O come to reign.

Christian, cheer thee; land is near­ing;
Still be hope­ful, noth­ing fear­ing;
Soon, in ma­jes­ty ap­pear­ing,
You’ll be­hold the Lamb once slain:
O how joy­ful then to hear Him,
While all na­tions shall re­vere Him,
Saying to His flock who fear Him,
I have come—on earth to reign!