Behold a stranger at the door

Behold a stranger at the door, He gently knocks, has knock'd before; Has waited long, is waiting still; You use no other friend so ill.

But will he prove a friend indeed? He will; the very friend you need: The man of Nazareth—'tis he, With garments dy'd at Calvary.

Rise, touch'd with gratitude divine, Turn out his enemies and thine; That hateful, hell-born monster, Sin, And let the Heav'nly Stranger in.

If thou art poor (and poor thou art), Lo! he hath riches to impart; Not wealth in which mean av'rice rolls, O! nobler far, the wealth of souls.

Thou'rt blind! he'll take the scales away, And let in everlasting day; Naked thou art, but he shall dress Thy blushing soul in righteousness.

Art thou a weeper? Grief shall fly, For who can weep with Jesus by? No terror shall thy hopes annoy, No fear, except the fear of joy.