We may not climb the hea­ven­ly steeps
To bring the Lord Christ down;
In vain we search the low­est deeps,
For Him no depths can drown.

But warm, sweet, ten­der, even yet
A pre­sent help is He;
And faith has still its Ol­iv­et,
And love its Ga­li­lee.

The heal­ing of the seam­less dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life’s throng and press,
And we are whole again.

Through Him the first fond pray­ers are said
Our lips of child­hood frame;
The last low whis­pers of our dead
Are bur­dened with His name.

O Lord and Mas­ter of us all,
Whate’er our name or sign,
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
We test our lives by Thine!