Where sound the cries of race and clan,
Above the noise of selfish strife
We hear thy voice, O Son of Man.
In haunts of wretchedness and need,
On shadowed thresholds dark with fears,
From paths where hide the lure of greed,
We catch the vision of thy tears.
O Master from the mountain-side,
Make haste to heal these hearts of pain;
Among the restless throngs abide,
O tread the city's streets again;
Till sons of men shall learn thy love,
And follow where thy feet have trod;
Till glorious from thy heav'n above
Shall come the city of our God.
- Frank Mason North