To each we hear the Saviour say
We to his work must hence away;
For great the field—the laborers few!
What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?
O send thy Spirit from above
To fire our hearts with heavenly love;
And light our lips with truth, that we
May, witnesses, go forth for thee.
And may we count all else as loss
To spread the glory of thy cross—
From shades and death redeemed, to bring
The priceless jewels of our King.
On distant islands of the sea—
On heathen shores our lot may be,
To dying souls to bear the bread
And balm of life on Calvary shed.
Yet, though our lines be marked afar,
And some beneath a foreign star,
We may look upward to the Sun
Of righteousness, and still be one.
And when our works of faith are past,
In joy we ’ll meet on high at last;
And there, in praise, our voices swell
The song, where enters no farewell.
[THE SPECKLED ONE.]
Poor speckled one! none else will deign
To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
To give it air and sound.