| lyric | 1. I am a poor wayfaring stranger;
I sometimes know not where to roam;
I heard of a city called heaven
I’m trying to make it my home.
2. Sometimes I’m both tossed and driven;
Sometimes O know not where to roam;
I heard of a city called heaven
I’m trying to make it my home.
3. My friends and relations forsake me,
And troubles roll ’round me so high;
I thought of the kind voice of Jesus
Saying „Poor pilgrim, I’m always nigh.“ |