Oppressed by noonday’s scorching heat,
To yonder cross I flee;
Beneath its shelter take my seat—
No shade like this to me.
Beneath that cross clear waters burst,
A fountain sparkling free,
And there I quench my desert thirst—
No spring like this for me.
For burdened ones, a resting-place
Beside that cross I see;
Here I cast off my weariness—
No rest like this for me.
A stranger here, I pitch my tent
Beneath this spreading tree;
Here shall my pilgrim life be spent—
No home like this for me.