Where cross the crowded ways
of life,
Where sound the cries of race
and clan,
Above the noise of selfish strife,
We hear Your voice, O Son of Man.
2
From tender childhood's helplessness,
From human grief and burdened toil,
From famished souls, from sorrow's stress,
Your heart has never known recoil.
3
The cup of water given for You
Still holds the freshness of Your grace;
Yet long these multitudes to view
The strong compassion in Your face.
4
O Master, from the mountainside
Make haste to heal these hearts
of pain;
Among these restless throngs abide;
O tread the city's streets again.
5
Till all the world shall learn Your love
And follow where Your feet have trod,
Till, glorious from Your heav'n above,
Shall come the city of our God.