Lord, may the spir­it of this feast—
The ear­nest of Thy love—
Maintain a dwell­ing in our breast,
Until we meet above.

The heal­ing sense of par­doned sin,
The hope that ne­ver tires,
The strength a pil­grim’s race to win,
The joy that Heav’n in­spires.

Still may their light our du­ties trace
In lines of hal­lowed flame,
Like that upon the pro­phet’s face,
When from the mount he came.

But if no more with kin­dred dear
The brok­en bread we share,
Nor at the ban­quet board appear
To breathe the grate­ful prayer:

Forget us not—when on the bed
Of dire dis­ease we waste,
Or to the cham­bers of the dead,
And bar of judg­ment haste.

Forget not—Thou who bore the woe
Of Calvary’s fa­tal tree—
Those who with­in these courts be­low
Have thus re­mem­bered Thee.