I am a poor pilgrim of sorrow,
Cast out in this wide world to roam,
I’ve heard of a city called heaven,
I’m striving to make it my home.
I know I am weak and unworthy,
My poor heart is so prone to sin,
But Jesus the Savior almighty,
Has promis’d to soon take me in.
When friends and relations forsake me,
And trouble rolls round me so high,
I think of the kind words of Jesus:
Poor pilgrim, I am always nigh.