On Your poor hands pierced by the nail,
With hope's long clinging, the old
Women have rested their cold
Souls without feeling and frail,
In the hush You are dreaming in
This night, good Lord! And they sing
To the prodigals wandering
In the wildernesses of sin:
They are saying, these voices in pain,
They must suffer long until
The heavenly dawn shall fill
Their songs with brightness again,
That since You have wept above
The sins of the mad human race,
They must wash with tears their face,
And pray to You long in love.
On Your poor hands pierced by the nail,
With hope's long clinging, the old
Women have rested their cold
Souls without feeling and frail.