The Pilgrim Song, Gerhard Tersteegen.

Gerhardt Tersteegen was born at Moers, Germany , November 25, 1697. After his father’s death when Gerhardt was only six, his mother was unable to send him to the university. He studied at the Gymnasium in Moers, and then earned a meager living as a silk weaver, sharing his daily fare with the poor. Malnutrition and privation undermined his health, and he suffered a serious depression for some five years. This led to Gerhardt writing a document that was his new covenant with God, signing it in his own blood. A strong mystic, he did not attend the services of the Reformed Church after 1719. Although forming no sect of his own, he became well known as a religious teacher and leader. His house was known as “The Pilgrim’s Cottage” — a retreat for men seeking a faithful, simple way of life, while he himself was known as “the physician of the poor and forsaken.” Tersteegen soon became known as a religious teacher among the “Stillen im Lande,” in English, the quiet ones. This was a name given to those seeking God beyond organized religion. In 1728 gave up his handicraft in order to devote himself to the translation of works by medieval and recent mystics and quietists. He also wrote devotional books and correspondence on religious subjects and was a kind of spiritual director for other seekers. From 1728 to his death he was supported by a small regular income given by his admirers and friends.

This song Tersteegen wrote, “The Pilgrim Song,” sums up his life of devotion to Christ and surrender of all self and all worldly pursuits.

The Pilgrim Song On, O beloved children, The evening is at hand, and desolate and fearful the solitary land. Take heart! the rest eternal awaits our weary feet; from strength to strength press onward, the end, how passing sweet!

Lo, we can tread rejoicing the narrow pilgrim road; we know the voice that calls us, we know our faithful God. Come, children, on to glory! With every face set fast towards the golden towers where we shall rest at last.

We left with voice of singing, we left the land of night, to pass in glorious music far onward out of sight. O children, was it sorrow? Though thousand worlds be lost, our eyes have looked on Jesus, and thus we count the cost.

The praising and the blaming, the storehouse and the mart, the mourning and the feasting, the glory and the art, the wisdom and the cunning, left far amid the gloom; we may not look behind us, for we are going home.

Across the will of nature leads on the path of God; not where the flesh delighteth the feet of Jesus trod. O bliss to leave behind us the fetters of the slave, to leave ourselves behind us, the grave-clothes and the grave!

To speed, unburdened pilgrims, glad, empty-handed, free; to cross the trackless deserts, and walk upon the sea; as strangers among strangers, no home beneath the sun; how soon the wanderings ended, the endless rest begun!

We pass the children playing, for evening shades fall fast; we pass the wayside flowers— God’s Paradise at last! If now the path be narrow and steep and rough and lone, if crags and tangles cross it, praise God! we will go on.

We follow in His footsteps; what if our feet be torn? Where He has marked the pathway all hail the briar and thorn! Scarce seen, scarce heard, unreckoned, despised, defamed, unknown, or heard but by our singing, “On, children! ever on!”

Image via author, Mutt Lake, Beartooth High Lakes Route, Beartooth Mountains, Wyoming.