Behold us, Lord, a lit­tle space
From dai­ly tasks set free,
And met with­in Thy ho­ly place
To rest awhile with Thee.

Around us rolls the cease­less tide
Of bu­si­ness, toil, and care;
And scarce­ly can we turn aside
For one brief hour of pray­er.

Yet these are not the on­ly walls
Wherein Thou may’st be sought:
On home­li­est work Thy bless­ing falls
In truth and pa­tience wrought.

Thine is the loom, the forge, the mart,
The wealth of land and sea,
The worlds of sci­ence and of art,
Revealed and ruled by Thee.

Then let us prove our hea­ven­ly birth
In all we do and know;
And claim the king­dom of the earth,
For Thee, and not Thy foe.

Work shall be pray­er, if all be wrought
As Thou would have it done;
And pray­er, by Thee in­spired and taught,
Itself with work be one.