In the vine­yard of our Fa­ther
Daily work we find to do;
Scattered fruit our hands may ga­ther,
Though we are but weak and few;
Little clus­ters
Help to fill the bas­ket, too.

Toiling ear­ly in the morn­ing,
Catching mo­ments through the day,
Nothing small or low­ly scorn­ing,
So we work, and watch, and pray;
Gathering glad­ly
Free will of­fer­ings by the way.

Not for self­ish praise or glo­ry,
Not for ob­jects no­thing worth,
But to send the bless­èd sto­ry
Of the Gos­pel o’er the earth,
Telling mor­tals
Of our Lord and Sav­ior’s birth.

Up and ever at our call­ing,
Till in death our lips are dumb,
Or till, sin’s do­min­ion fall­ing,
Christ shall in His king­dom come,
And His child­ren
Reach their ev­er­last­ing home.

Steadfast, then, in our en­dea­vor,
Heavenly Fa­ther, may we be;
And for­ev­er, and for­ev­er,
We will give the praise to Thee;
Alleluia!
Singing, all eternity.