King of saints, to whom the num­ber
Of Thy star­ry host is known,
Many a name, by man for­got­ten,
Lives for­ev­er round Thy throne;
Lights, which earth-born mists have dark­ened,
There are shin­ing full and clear,
Princes in the court of Hea­ven,
Nameless, un­re­mem­bered here.

In the roll of Thine apos­tles
One there stands, Bar­tho­lo­mew,
He for whom today we of­fer,
Year by year, our prais­es due;
How he toiled for Thee and suf­fered
None on earth can now re­cord;
All his saint­ly life is hid­den
In the know­ledge of his Lord.

Was it he, be­neath the fig tree
Seen of Thee, and guile­less found;
He who saw the good he longed for
Rise from Na­za­reth’s bar­ren ground;
He who met his ris­en Mas­ter
On the shore of Ga­li­lee;
He to whom the word was spok­en,
Greater things thou yet shall see?

None can tell us; all is writ­ten
In the Lamb’s great book of life,
All the faith, and pray­er, and pa­tience,
All the toil­ing, and the strife;
There are told Thy hid­den trea­sures;
Number us, O Lord, with them,
When Thou mak­est up the jew­els
Of Thy liv­ing di­adem.