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.

Thou judg­est us; Thy pu­ri­ty
Doth all our lusts con­demn;
The love that draws us near­er Thee
Is hot with wrath to them.

Our thoughts lie op­en to Thy sight
And nak­ed to Thy glance
Our sec­ret sins are in the light
Of Thy pure coun­te­nance.

Yet weak and blind­ed though we be,
Thou dost our ser­vice own;
We bring our va­ry­ing gifts to Thee,
And Thou re­ject­est none.

To Thee our full hu­ma­ni­ty,
Its joys and pains be­long;
The wrong of man to man on Thee
Inflicts a deep­er wrong.

Who hates, hates Thee; who loves, be­comes
Therein to Thee all­ied:
All sweet ac­cords of hearts and homes
In Thee are mul­ti­plied.

Apart from Thee all gain is loss,
All labor vain­ly done;
The so­lemn sha­dow of the cross
Is bet­ter than the sun.

Our friend, our bro­ther, and our Lord,
What may Thy ser­vice be?
Nor name, nor form, nor ri­tual word,
But simply fol­low­ing Thee.

We faint­ly hear, we dim­ly see,
In dif­fer­ing phrase we pray;
But dim or clear, we own in Thee
The Light, the Truth, the Way.