I Am A Poor Pilgrim Of Sorrow Cast Out

I am a poor pilgrim of sorrow,
Cast out in this wide world to roam;
Uncertain of life for tomorrow,
I want to make heaven my home.
Sometimes I am both tossed and driven;
Sometimes I know not where to roam;
I hear of a city called heaven,
I am striving to make it my home.

They tell me its walls are of jasper,
The streets are all paved with pure gold,
My Jesus is the building master,
He is making a home for my soul.
The city is way over yonder,
A city that’s quite out of sight;
I have a few days yet to wander,
A few more hard battles to fight.

I am now in a waste howling desert,
Not a foot of its land to call mine;
No cottage nor tent for a shelter,
Tho’ storms are descending sometimes,
I have friends that are now up in heaven,
And others still walking in sin;
If brothers and sisters don’t own me,
My Jesus says he’ll take me in.

I am wandering in this land of danger,
No comfort or peace do I find;
I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
To troubles and trials confined,
When friends and relations forsake me,
And sorrows like billows roll high,
I think of the kind words of Jesus,
Which say, “Weary child, I am nigh.”

My lot among men may be dreary,
My station quite poor and despised;
By grace I will run and not weary,
Till called up with Jesus on high.
When death shall determine my stay here,
My body is laid in the grave.
I hope I shall dwell with my Father,
In heaven, there always to stay.

Hark! listen to the music from heaven;
Oh! what is this steals on my frame?
I see the old ship drawing nearer,
The Captain is calling my name.
To you, my old friends and companions:
The fight will not be very long;
Though now among lions, like Daniel,
Deliverance surely will come.