Sweet and abun­dant is this boast,
Well done, thou ser­vant of the field.
My rights on earth I count as loss
For hea­ven’s hope con­tains my yield.

Gavest Thou me the gos­pel seal,
When once Thou sealed me as Thine own,
To plant where they know not of Thee,
That in Thee might this seed be grown.

This boast my flesh would still de­ny
If to its al­tar I now bend
To drink its lust or lift its pride
And wear the wreath of fall­en men.

I from Thy use shall not be cast
If Thou re­main my prize and shield
For then this boast will come at last,
Well done, thou ser­vant of the field.