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.