The Hands Of Jesus

Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
‘Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen be-fore
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?
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.
Knocking, knocking—what! still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yes, the piercèd hand still knocketh,
And beneath the crownèd hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Saviour, waiting there.