Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair!
’Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before,
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 Savior waiting there.