Waiting, while I tra­vel on­ward,
For the pil­grim’s pro­mised rest,
For the crown and joy eter­nal,
In the ci­ty of the blest.
Earth, with all its plea­sant voices,
Cannot stay my toil-worn feet;
Love the pur­est—hope the bright­est—
Hath no pro­mise half so sweet.

Waiting till each cross that meets us
Doth its of­fice work of love;
Making ev­ery bur­den light­er,
Turning ev­ery thought above.
Waiting, aft­er nights of wak­ing;
After days of toil and pain,
Leaving all my doubts for­ev­er,
Counting all my loss­es gain.

Waiting, till the Bride­groom com­eth,
When the bride ar­rayed in white,
Shall be­hold the worlds of glo­ry
Fashioned for the sons of light.
Oh, the loved ones that will meet us,
When we reach the oth­er shore,
Oh, the bright ones that will greet us,
When the pilg­rim­age is o’er.

In the light of that fair coun­try
Ever fall­ing on my way,
Sorrows cast but fee­ble sha­dows,
Night is joy­ous as the day.
Thus my wait­ing on­ly seem­eth
Like love’s vi­gil, full of trust,
For I know ere long He com­eth—
He the love­ly and the just.

Let me wait, then, ’mid the tem­pest,
For the voice that whis­pers peace,
Wait with­in the home of sor­row
For the strug­gling soul’s re­lease.
Waiting—this is all life’s mis­sion
On the Prince of Life to wait,
He who toils with pa­tient wait­ing,
Is not far from Hea­ven’s gate.