THE HOMELESS WAYFARER

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 24, 1873

THE HOMELESS WAYFARER.

Foxes have their holes secure from danger, Where betimes they fly for rest; Man enjoys his safe and peaceful pillow, And the bird her quiet nest.

But the Son of man, born in a manger, Hath not where to lay his head— Counted as an outcast and a stranger, Spit upon and buffeted.

On the cross, he closed his weary eyelids— On the cross, he bowed his head— Only thus he rested from his labors, Dying in the sinner's stead.

King of glory, looking love and meekness, While the proud world scoffs and scorns, Hath thine aching head no softer pillow Than a cruel crown of thorns?

In thy Father's house are many mansions, Pleasant mansions, bright and fair— Yet thy patient feet still wander earthward, That thou mayest bring us there.

Though all hearts and homes were made for Jesus, Still they know no guest but sin; Though he stand and knock, no cheerful welcome Calls the blest Wayfarer in.

At my door, the wayworn wanderer knocketh, Wandering where fond friends are few— And he waiteth till his locks are dripping, Cold and wet with midnight dew.

I behold thee, O thou Man of Sorrows, Faint and footsore all for me, Let my humble and unworthy dwelling Rest and cheer and comfort thee.

Come, O come, thou meek and lowly Jesus, Dwell with me and be my guest! Come, and be my loving elder brother; Make thy home within my breast!