I cannot strive, I will not cry;
I sit and watch the throng go by--
They press, their hands with favors full,
Into the Temple Beautiful.
And all alone I sit, where fate
Ordained my place, outside the gate.
O not for pity, not for alms,
I stretch sometimes these eager palms;
I almost think the form I know
Whose touch could bid me rise and go;
But all in vain--the hour grows late,
And still I watch outside the gate.
What end of waiting shall there be?
Will there be room in heaven for me?
Will one who cometh late, but sure,
Bring for this life-long grief a cure?
Or must I there forever wait,
As always here, outside the gate?
I seem to hear them call the blest;
My name is not among the rest;
I see the Bridegroom meet the Bride--
I wait, and look, and long, outside;
Still bound, with freedom all about;
All heaven within, and I without!
Yet, Lord, not comfortless I wait;
They keep not Thee within the gate!
