Thou, who didst call Thy saints of old
Thy chos­en flock to teach,
Who mad’st the fear­ful heart­ed bold,
And quick the slow of speech;
Still Thou dost ask whom Thou shalt send
And who will go for Thee,
To feed Thy lambs, Thy sheep to tend;
Lord, here am I; send me.

O send us—e’en as Thou, O Lord,
Wast by the Fa­ther sent—
To speak Thine own ab­solv­ing word
To sin­ners pe­ni­tent;
To wash Thy chos­en in the flood
Whereby new birth is giv­en;
To minister the sac­red food,
The Bread of Life from Heav’n.

And Thou, who didst by pro­phets deign
To speak the will di­vine,
That we may ne­ver speak in vain,
May all our words be Thine;
Oh, teach us, Ho­ly Ghost, that we
Thine he­rit­age may teach;
Bid us to pro­phe­sy for Thee,
And in Thy pow­er to preach.

So may we, though un­wor­thy still,
Most ho­ly Tri­ni­ty,
Thy pro­phets, pas­tors, priests, ful­fill
Our sac­red min­is­try;
That, when be­side the crys­tal sea
We lay our of­fice down,
The souls that we have trained for Thee
May be our joy and crown.