Pilgrim on the toilsome way,
Through this vale of sorrow,
There will be a better day,
Wrestle till the morrow.

Say not that your trouble's great,
Or your conflicts many;
On your Heavenly Father wait,
He doth succour any.

All the holy righteous dead,
All the martyrs bleeding,
Are but just gone on a-head,
Press on—never heeding.

They through blood have struggled on,
Through the flames and fire;
But they now can look upon
Jesus, and admire.

Are you tempted to look back,
Give the struggle over?
Think of those who, on the rack,
Prais'd the great Jehovah.

Pilgrim on the toilsome way,
Through this vale of sorrow,
Surely there's a better day,
There's a brighter morrow.