Who are these that come from far, Swifter than a flying cloud! Thick as flocking doves they are, Eager in pursuit of God: Trembling as the storm draws nigh, Hastening to their place of rest, See them to the windows fly, To the ark of Jesu’s breast! Who are these but sinners poor, Conscious of their lost estate, Sin-sick souls, who for their cure On the good Physician wait; Fallen who bewail their fall, Proffered mercy who embrace, Listening to the Gospel call, Longing to be saved by grace. For his mate the turtle moans, For his God the sinner sighs; Hark, the music of their groans, Humble groans that pierce the skies Surely God their sorrows hears, Every accent, every look, Treasures up their gracious tears, Notes their sufferings in His book. He who hath their cure begun, Will He now despise their pain? Can He leave His work undone, Bring them to the birth in vain? No; we all who seek shall find, We who ask shall all receive, Be to Christ in spirit joined, Free from sin forever live.