O holy Lord, con­tent to fill
In low­ly home the low­li­est place,
Thy child­hood’s law a mo­ther’s will,
Obedience meek Thy bright­est grace;

Lead ev­ery child that bears Thy name
To walk in Thine own guile­less way,
To dread the touch of sin and shame,
And hum­bly, like Thy­self, ob­ey.

O let not this world’s scorch­ing glow
Thy Spir­it’s quick­en­ing dew ef­face,
Nor blast of sin to rude­ly blow,
And quench the trem­bling flame of grace.

Gather Thy lambs with­in Thine arm,
And gently in Thy bo­som bear;
Keep them, O Lord, from hurt and harm,
And bid them rest for ev­er there.

So shall they, wait­ing here be­low,
Like Thee their Lord, a lit­tle span,
In wis­dom and in sta­ture grow,
And fa­vor with both God and man.