 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
Capernaum
How blest the “city” which was called “His own,”The home of Jesus Christ; happy the street
Which knew the echo of His sandalled feet,
The light of His familiar face, the tone
Of His most gentle voice: happy each stone
And timber of that dwelling, which His sweet
“Peace to this house” was daily wont to greet,
When His dear shadow on the door was thrown.
Jesu, who standest knocking at my door,
Seeking a home in this poor heart of mine,
Oh, lift the latch—enter for evermore;
Here let Thy voice be heard, make Thy face shine,
And breathe Thy peace, while gratefully I sing
The love and condescension of my King.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |