No other hand thy special task can do,
Though trivial it may seem to thee.
Thou canst not shirk
God-given work
And still be blest of Heaven, from sin be free.
O idler in life's ripened harvest-field,
Perform thy task, that rich thy work may yield!
Ah, sweet the thought that comes at set of sun,
If finished is the work of that one day.
But O the joy
Without alloy,
Awaiting him who at life's close can say,
"I'm ready, Father, to go home to thee;
The work is finished which thou gavest me."