The hand that begs thy grace to-night
Shall sign thy woe’s release.
He asks so little, gives so much,
And sigheth to give more
Who, patient in the wintry world,
Stands knocking at thy door.
Hasten, my soul, let Him not wait;
Fling thy heart’s portal wide;
Bid thou this weary little Child
Fore’er with thee abide.