Knocking, knocking, who is there ? Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair ! Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before ; Ah, my soul, for such a wonder, Wilt thou not undo the door ?
2. Knocking, knocking ! still He's there : Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair : But the door is hard to open, For the weeds and ivy-vine, With their dark and clinging tendrils, Ever round the hinges twine.
3. Knocking, knocking---- what, still there ? Waiting, waiting, grand and fair ! Yes, the pierced hand still knocketh, And beneath the crowned hair Beam the patient eyes, so tender, Of thy Saviour waiting there.