Not in some cloistered cell
Dost thou, Lord, bid me dwell
My love to show,
But 'mid the busy marts,
Where men with burdened hearts
Do come and go.
Some tempted soul to cheer
When breath of ill is near
And foes annoy;
The sinning to restrain,
To ease the throb of pain--
Be such my joy.
Lord, make me quick to see
Each task awaiting me,
And quick to do;
Oh, grant me strength, I pray,
With lowly love each day,
And purpose true,
To go as Jesus went,
Spending and being spent,
Myself forgot;
Supplying human needs
By loving words and deeds--
Oh, happy lot!
--Robert M. Offord.