It was spok­en for the Mas­ter,
O how lov­ing­ly it fell;
It was ut­tered in a whis­per,
Who had breathed it none could tell.
It was spok­en for the Mas­ter,
Only just a lit­tle word,
But the chords that long had slum­bered
In a grief-worn heart were stirred.

Refrain

Gentle words of pa­tient kind­ness,
Tho’ un­heed­ed oft they seem,
To the fold of grace may ga­ther
Souls of which we lit­tle dream.

O we know not when we scat­ter
Where the pre­cious seed will fall,
But we work and trust in Je­sus,
For He watch­eth over all.
We may sow be­side the wa­ters
Of af­flict­ion it may be,
But the fruits of ear­nest la­bor
At the reap­ing we shall see.

Refrain

When our bu­sy toil is ov­er,
From the vine­yard when we go,
We shall find a store of bless­ings,
That on earth we could not know.
We shall won­der at the bright­ness
Of the crowns we then shall wear,
But the Lord Him­self will tell us,
Why He placed the jew­els there.

Refrain