O friend of sinners, who for man once died,
While any wanderers remain outside
The pale of thy sweet mercy, canst thou see
Of thy sore travail, and be satisfied?

If but one sheep of all the guarded fold
Is lost upon the mountain-tops, behold,
The watchful shepherd leaves the rest, to seek
The lost one; finding it, aweary, cold,

Its trembling limbs he tenderly doth chafe,
And bears it in his bosom, warm and safe,
Back to the fold. O shepherd all divine,
Wilt thou do less for any human waif?

Shall earthly care with heavenly care compete?
May we not trust that all these wandering feet
Shall reach at last thy sacred fold, and bide
Forever in thy pastures large and sweet?