A poor way­far­ing man of grief
Hath oft­en crossed me on my way,
Who sued so hum­bly for re­lief
That I could ne­ver an­swer nay.
I had not pow­er to ask his name,
Whereto he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was some­thing in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.

Once, when my scan­ty meal was spread,
He en­tered; not a word he spake,
Just per­ish­ing for want of bread.
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again.
Mine was an an­gel’s por­tion then,
For while I fed with ea­ger haste,
The crust was ma­nna to my taste.

I spied him where a fount­ain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone.
The heed­less water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hur­ry­ing on.
I ran and raised the suf­fer­er up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and re­turned it run­ning o’er;
I drank and ne­ver thirst­ed more.

’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A win­ter hur­ri­cane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad and flew
To bid him wel­come to my roof.
I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest
And laid him on my couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden’s gar­den while I dreamed.

Stripped, wounded, beat­en nigh to death,
I found him by the high­way side.
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spir­it, and sup­plied
Wine, oil, re­fres­hment—he was healed.
I had my­self a wound con­cealed,
But from that hour for­got the smart,
And peace bound up my brok­en heart.

In pris’n I saw him next, con­demned
To meet a trai­tor’s doom at morn.
The tide of ly­ing tongues I stemmed,
And hon­ored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friend­ship’s u­tmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spir­it cried, I will!

Then in a mo­ment to my view
The stran­ger start­ed from dis­guise.
The tok­ens in His hands I knew;
The Sav­ior stood be­fore mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name He named,
Of Me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy me­mor­ial be;
Fear not, thou didst them un­to Me.