O God, who workest hitherto,
Working in all we see,
Fain we would be, and bear, and do,
As best it pleaseth Thee.
The toil of brain, or heart, or hand,
Is man’s appointed lot;
He who Thy call can understand
Will work, and murmur not.
Where’er Thou sendest we will go,
Nor any question ask,
And what Thou biddest we will do,
Whatever be the task.
Our skill of hand and strength of limb
Are not our own, but Thine;
We link them to the work of Him
Who made all life divine.
Our brother-friend, Thy holy Son,
Shared all our lot and strife;
And nobly will our work be done
If molded by His life.