“Lord, in Thy field I work all day,
I read, I teach, I warn, I pray,
And yet these will­ful wan­der­ing sheep
Within Thy fold I can­not keep.

I jour­ney, yet no step is won—
Alas! the wea­ry course I run!
Like sail­ors ship­wrecked in their dreams
All pow­er­less and be­night­ed seems.

What? wea­ried out with half a life?
Scared with this smooth un­bloody strife?
Think where thy cow­ard hopes had flown,
Had Heav’n held out the mar­tyr’s crown.

How couldst thou hang up­on the cross,
To whom a wea­ry hour is loss?
Or how the thorns and scourg­ing brook,
Who shrink­est from a scorn­ful look?

Yet ere thy cra­ven spir­it faints,
Hear thine own king, the King of saints;
Though thou wert toil­ing in the grave,
’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.

He is th’ eter­nal mir­ror bright,
Where an­gels view the Fa­ther’s light,
And yet in Him the simp­lest swain
May read his home­ly les­son plain.

Early to quit His home on earth,
And claim His high ce­les­ti­al birth,
Alone with His true Fa­ther found
Within the tem­ple’s so­lemn round:

Yet in meek du­ty to abide
For ma­ny a year at Mary’s side,
Nor heed, though rest­less spir­its ask,
What? hath the Christ for­got His task?

Conscious of de­ity with­in,
To bow be­fore an heir of sin,
With fold­ed arms on hum­ble breast,
By His own ser­vant washed and blest:

With hymns of an­gels in His ears,
Back to His task of woe and tears,
Unmurmuring through the world to roam
With not a wish or thought of home:

All but Him­self to heal and save,
Till rip­ened for the cross and grave,
He to His Fa­ther gent­ly yield
The breath that our re­demp­tion sealed:

Then to un­earth­ly life arise,
Yet not at once to seek the skies,
But glide away from saint to saint,
Lest on our lone­ly way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimps­es show
How bright, in Heav’n, the marks will glow
Of the true cross, im­print­ed deep
Both on the Shep­herd and the sheep:

When out of sight, in heart and pray­er
Thy chos­en peo­ple still to bear,
And from be­hind Thy glo­ri­ous veil,
Shed light that can­not change or fail:

This is Thy pas­tor­al course, O Lord,
Till we be saved, and Thou ad­ored;
Thy course and ours—but who are they
Who fol­low on the nar­row way?

And yet of Thee from year to year
The Church’s so­lemn chant we hear,
As from Thy cra­dle to Thy throne
She swells her high heart-cheer­ing tone.

Listen, ye pure white rob­èd souls,
Whom in her list she now en­rolls,
And gird yet from your high em­prise
By these her thrill­ing min­strel­sies.

And where­so­e’er, in earth’s wide field,
Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield,
Be this your song your joy and pride—
Our cham­pion went be­fore and died.