cross the crowded ways
Where sound the cries of race
Above the noise of selfish strife,
We hear Your voice, O Son of Man.
From tender childhood's helplessness,
From human grief and burdened toil,
From famished souls, from sorrow's stress,
Your heart has never known recoil.
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.
O Master, from the mountainside
Make haste to heal these hearts
Among these restless throngs abide;
O tread the city's streets again.
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.