Daughters of pi­ty, tune the lay;
To mourn­ers joy be­longs;
While He that wipes all tears away
Accepts our thank­ful songs.

No al­tars smoke, no of­fer­ings bleed,
No guilt­less lives ex­pire;
To help a bro­ther in his need
Is all our rites re­quire.

Our of­fer­ing is a will­ing mind
To com­fort the dis­tressed;
In oth­ers’ good our own to find,
In oth­ers’ bless­ing blest.

Go to the pil­low of dis­ease,
Where night gives no re­pose,
And on the cheek where sick­ness preys,
Bid health to plant a rose.

Go where the friend­less stran­ger lies;
To per­ish is his doom:
Snatch from the grave his clos­ing eyes,
And bring his bless­ing home.

Thus, what our heav’n­ly Fa­ther gave,
Shall we as free­ly give;
Thus co­py Him who lived to save,
And died that we might live.