The Pilgrim’s Progress

Blest is the broken, bleeding heart,
For sin constrained to ache!

Blest is the broken, bleeding heart,
For sin constrained to ache!
Soon Heavenly Hands shall bind it up,
No more to bleed or break.

Blest are the eyes, whose burning tears
O’er past transgressions fall!
The Sun of Righteousness shall rise,
To dry, or light them all.

That broken heart, that tearful eye,
That pensive pilgrim guise,
Are Heaven’s own gifts, and more than all
That worldlings seek or prize.

Who has them, claims and titles has
Which none beside can own;
Pledges of more than eye hath seen,
Or heart conceived or known.

Through clouds and sunshine, storm and calm,
He on to glory goes,
With hope to light him o’er his way,
And bliss to crown its close.

The wise may slight, the proud may shun;
His God is with him still,
And adds a zest to all his joys,
And lightens every ill.

Through Him he daily triumphs gains
O’er Satan, self, and sin;
Through Him new blessings smile without,
New joy and peace within.

A coal from heaven has touched his lips,
And filled his mouth with song;
And Faith and Love spring forth to waft
His fainting steps along.

He goes, he goes, his fadeless crown
From Christ’s own hand to win!
The angels throng round heaven’s high gate,
To hail the stranger in!

The silver cord is loosed at last,
The fettered soul takes wing;
Assumes its station fast by God,
His ceaseless praise to sing.

Henry Francis Lyte