The toil of brain, or heart, or hand,
Is man's appointed lot;
He who God's call can understand
Will work and murmur not.
Toil is no thorny crown of pain,
Bound round man's brow for sin;
True souls, from it, all strength may gain,
High manliness may win.
O God! who workest hitherto,
Working in all we see,
Fain would we be, and bear, and do,
As best it pleaseth thee.
Where'er thou sendest we will go,
Nor any questions ask,
And that 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.
--Thomas W. Freckelton.
No service in itself is small;
None great, though earth it fill;
But that is small that seeks its own,
And great that seeks God's will.
Then hold my hand, most gracious God,
Guide all my goings still;
And let it be my life's one aim,
To know and do thy will.