We give Thee but Thine own,
Whate’er the gift may be;
All that we have is Thine alone,
A trust, O Lord, from Thee.

May we Thy boun­ties thus
As stew­ards true re­ceive,
And glad­ly, as Thou bless­est us,
To Thee our first­fruits give.

O hearts are bruised and dead,
And homes are bare and cold,
And lambs for whom the Shep­herd bled
Are stray­ing from the fold.

To com­fort and to bless,
To find a balm for woe,
To tend the lone and fa­ther­less
Is an­gels’ work below.

The cap­tive to re­lease,
To God the lost to bring,
To teach the way of life and peace—
It is a Christ-like thing.

And we be­lieve Thy Word,
Though dim our faith may be;
Whate’er for Thine we do, O Lord,
We do it un­to Thee.