Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition

A poor wayfaring man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way;
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had no pow’r to ask his name,
Whither he went or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.

I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran and raised the suff’rer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and returned it running o’er;
I drank and never thirsted more.

In pris’n I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor’s doom at morn,
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed
And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die:
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, “I will.”

Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise;
The tokens in His hands I knew —
My Savior stood before my eyes.
He spake and my poor name He named:
“Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be:
Fear not, thou didst it unto me.”