Mark that pilgrim—lowly bending

Mark that pilgrim—lowly bending,At the shrine of prayer ascending,Praise and sighs together blendingFrom his lips in mournful strain;Glowing with sincere contrition,And with childlike, blest submission,Ever riseth this petition:—"Jesus, come,—O come to reign."

List again;—the low earth sigheth,And the blood of martyrs criethFrom its bosom, where there liethMillions upon millions slain:—"Lord, how long ere, thy word given,All the wicked shall be drivenFrom the earth by bolts of heaven?Jesus, come,—O come to reign."

Kingdoms now are reeling, falling;Nations lie in woe appalling,On their sages vainly callingAll these wonders to explain;While the slain around are lying,God's own little flock are sighing,And in secret places crying,"Jesus, come,—O come to reign."

Here the wicked live securely,Of to-morrow boasting surely,While from those who 're walking purely,They extort dishonest gain:Yea, the meek are burdened, driven;Want and care to them are given;But they lift the cry to heaven,"Jesus, come,—O come to reign."

Christian, cheer thee; land is nearing;Still be hopeful, nothing fearing;Soon, in majesty appearing,You 'll behold the Lamb once slain:O how joyful then to hear him,While all nations shall revere him,Saying to his flock who fear him,"I have come—on earth to reign!"