Where cross the crowded ways of life
where sound the cries of race and clan
above the noise of selfish strife
we hear Your voice, O Son of Man
In haunts of wretchedness and need
on shadowed thresholds fraught with fears
from paths where hide the lures of greed
we catch the vision of Your tears
From tender childhood’s helplessness
from human grief and burdened toil
from famished souls, from sorrow’s stress
Your heart has never known recoil
The cup of water given for You
still holds the freshness of Your grace
yet long these multitudes to view
the sweet compassion of Your face
O Master, from the mountainside
make haste to heal these hearts of pain
among these restless throngs abide
O tread the city’s streets again
Till all the world shall learn Your love
and follow where your feet have trod
till glorious from Your heaven above
shall come the city of our God
— Frank Mason North (~1905)