Where cross the crowd­ed ways of life,
Where sound the cries of race and clan
Above the noise of self­ish strife,
We hear your voice, O Son of Man.

In haunts of wretch­ed­ness and need,
On sha­dowed thres­holds dark with fears,
From paths where hide the lures of greed,
We catch the vi­sion of Your tears.

From ten­der child­hood’s help­less­ness,
From wo­man’s grief, man’s bur­dened toil,
From fam­ished souls, from sor­row’s stress,
Your heart has ne­ver known re­coil.

The cup of wa­ter given for You,
Still holds the fresh­ness of Your grace;
Yet long these mul­ti­tudes to view
The sweet com­pass­ion of Your face.

O Mas­ter, from the mount­ain­side
Make haste to heal these hearts of pain;
Among these rest­less throngs abide;
O tread the ci­ty’s streets again.

Till sons of men shall learn Your love
And fol­low where Your feet have trod,
Till, glo­ri­ous from Your Heav’n above,
Shall come the city of our God!