Groping on in darkness drear,
When the storms are raging sore,
Hearts grow faint, and hopes give o'er
Whisper softly, wanderer come!
Follow me, I'll guide thee home.
3 When our days of toil shall cease,
Waiting still for sweet release,
Nothing left but heaven and prayer,
Wondering if our names were there;
Wading deep the dismal flood,