Dear Lord, on this Thy ser­vant’s day,
Who left for Thee the gold and mart,
Who heard Thee whis­per, Come away,
And fol­lowed with a sin­gle heart,

Give us, amid earth’s wea­ry moil,
And wealth for which men cark and care,
’Mid for­tune’s pride, and need’s wild toil,
And brok­en hearts in pur­ple rare,

Give us Thy grace to rise above
The glare of this world’s smelt­ing fires;
Let God’s great love put out the love
Of gold, and gain, and low de­sires.

Still, like a breath from scent­ed lime
Borne in­to rooms where sick men faint,
His voice comes float­ing through all time,
Thine own ev­an­gel­ist and saint.

Still sweet­ly rings the Gos­pel strain
Of gold­en store that knows not rust:
The love of Christ is more than gain,
And heav’n­ly crowns than yel­low dust.