Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, O how fair!
’Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder
Wilt thou not undo the door?
Wilt thou not undo the door?

Knocking, knocking, still He’s there,
Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair;
But the door is hard to open,
For the weeds and ivy vine
With their dark and clinging tendrils
Ever round the hinges twice,
Ever round the hinges twice.

Knocking, knocking what! still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair;
Yea, the wounded hand still knocketh,
And beneath the thorn-wreath’d hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of thy Savior waiting there;
Wilt thou keep him waiting there?