High on His ev­er­last­ing throne,
The King of saints His work sur­veys;
Marks the dear souls He calls His own,
And smiles on the pe­cul­iar race.

He rests well pleased their toils to see;
Beneath His ea­sy yoke they move;
With all their heart and strength agree
In the sweet la­bor of His love.

His eye the world at once looks thro’,
A vast un­cul­ti­vat­ed field!
Mountains and vales, in ghast­ly show,
A bar­ren un­couth pros­pect yield.

Cleared of the thorns by hu­man care,
A few less hi­de­ous wastes are seen,
Yet still they all con­tin­ue bare,
And not one spot of earth is green.

See where the ser­vants of their God,
A busy mul­ti­tude, ap­pear;
For Je­sus day and night emp­loyed,
His he­ri­tage they toil to clear.

The love of Christ their hearts con­strains,
And strength­ens their un­wear­ied hands,
The spend their sweat, and blood, and pains,
To cul­ti­vate Im­ma­nu­el’s Land.

Alarmed at their suc­cess­ful toil,
Satan, and his wild spi­rits rage;
They la­bor to tear up and spoil,
And blast the ris­ing he­ri­tage.

In ev­ery wil­der­ness they sow
The seed of death, the car­nal mind,
They would not let one vir­tue grow,
Or leave one seed of good be­hind.

Yet still the ser­vants of their Lord
Look up, and calm­ly per­se­vere,
Supported by the Mas­ter’s Word,
The ad­verse pow­ers they scorn to fear.

Gladly their hap­py work pur­sue:
The la­bor of their hands is seen;
Their hands the face of earth re­new,
Diversified with cheer­ful green.

Where’er the faith­ful work­ers turn,
The steps of in­dus­try ap­pear,
They la­bor the dry wood to burn,
They la­bor with in­ces­sant care,

The fruits of So­dom to tread down,
To root up each ac­curs­èd seed,
By Sa­tan and his ser­vants sown,
And plant the Gos­pel in its stead.

To dig the ground, they all be­stow
Their lives; from ev­ery sof­tened clod
They ga­ther out the stones, and sow
Th’im­mor­tal see, the Word of God.

They wa­ter it with tears and pray­ers,
They long for the re­turn­ing Word;
Happy, if all their pains and cares
Can bring forth fruit to please their Lord.

Jesus their toil de­light­ed sees,
Their in­dus­try vouch­safes to crown;
He kind­ly gives the wished in­crease,
And sends the pro­mised bless­ing down.

The sap of life, the Spi­rit’s pow­ers,
He rains in­ces­sant from above;
He all His gra­cious full­ness show­ers,
To per­fect their great work of love.

He pros­pers all His ser­vants’ toils:
But of pe­cul­iar grace has chose
A flock, on whom He kind­est smiles,
And choic­est bless­ings He be­stows.

Devoted to their com­mon Lord,
True fol­low­ers of the bleed­ing Lamb,
By God be­loved, by men ab­horred—
And Herrn­hut is the fa­vo­rite name!

Here ma­ny a faith­ful soul is found,
With mys­tic pow­er en­dued;
Full of the light of life, and crowned,
A king and priest to serve His God.

With flam­ing zeal for Christ they shine,
Their body, soul and spi­rit give,
To Christ their goods and blood re­sign,
For Christ they free­ly die and live.

What can we of­fer our good Lord
(Poor no­things!) for His bound­less grace?
Fain would we His great name re­cord,
And wor­thi­ly set forth His praise.

Dear ob­ject of our grow­ing love,
To whom our more than all we owe,
Open the foun­tain from above,
And let it our full soul o’er­flow.

So shall our lives Thy pow­er pro­claim,
Thy grace for ev­ery sin­ner free,
Till all man­kind shall learn Thy name,
Shall all stretch out their hands to Thee.

Open a door which earth and hell
May strive to shut, but strive in vain:
Let Thy Word rich­ly in us dwell,
And let our gra­cious fruit re­main.

O mul­ti­ply Thy sow­er’s seed!
And fruit we ev­ery hour shall bear;
Throughout the world Thy Gos­pel spread,
Thine ev­er­last­ing truth de­clare!

We all in per­fect love re­newed
Shall know the great­ness of Thy pow­er,
Stand in the tem­ple of our God
As pil­lars, and go out no more.