The toil of brain, or heart, or hand,
Is man’s ap­point­ed lot;
He who God’s call can un­der­stand,
Will work and mur­mur not.
Toil is no thor­ny crown of pain,
Bound round man’s brow for sin;
True souls, from it, all strength may gain,
High man­li­ness may win.

O God! Who work­est hi­ther­to,
Working in all we see,
Fain would we be, and bear, and do,
As best it pleas­eth Thee.
Where’er Thou send­est we will go,
Nor any ques­tion ask,
And what Thou bid­dest we will do,
Whatever be the task.

Our skill of hand, and strength of limb,
Are not our own, but Thine;
We link them to the work of Him
Who made all life di­vine!
Our bro­ther-friend, Thy ho­ly Son,
Shared all our lot and strife;
And no­bly will our work be done,
If mold­ed by His life.