Thou art seeking souls, Lord Jesus,
Up and down this world of sin,
Waiting in Thy grace and pity
That Thy word may enter in:
Stoutest hearts have long resisted;
But when nothing else can move,
See another and another
Melting down beneath Thy love!
He! thou wanderer in the country
Where "a mighty famine" reigns,
What shall ease the inward craving
When thy soul of "want" complains?
Is one faint desire now turning
To thy Father's house so fair—
Longing, though but as a servant,
For the peace and plenty there?
Ah! thou knowest not that Father,
How he yearns His lost to greet;
See. From far he marks thy coming,
Runs His weary one to meet.
“I have sinned"—thy lips must utter—
The confession meet and true—
But He waits not tor the story
Of the wanderings which He knew.
'Tis when seated at His table,
Drest in tokens of His grace,
That thy shame will yet be deepened
In remembering all thy ways.
But the Father's love shall triumph,
For His heart hath had its way;
And the joy which there beginneth
Never more shall pass away.