Thro’ the bleak and drea­ry street,
Where the cold winds keen­ly blow,
See, a child with bare, chilled feet,
Wandering on ’mid ice and snow;
Houseless, home­less, God’s own Word
Shall its pre­cious com­fort be,
As ye did it un­to these,
Ye have done it unto Me.

In an at­tic cold and bare,
’Mid the drop­ping of the rain,
See, a woman, gaunt and wan,
Stitch from morn till morn again,
Fainting, fam­ished, Chris­tian man,
Does not God ap­peal to thee,
As ye did it un­to these,
Ye have done it un­to Me

When you pass the or­phan by,
With avert­ed look of scorn;
While the lone one toils and sighs,
Faint and weak from morn to morn:
Think, there soon shall come a day,
When thy God shall say to thee,
As ye did it un­to these,
Ye have done it un­to Me.