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Dear Lord, on this Thy servant’s day,
Who left for Thee the gold and mart,
Who heard Thee whisper, “Come away,”
And followed with a single heart,
Give us, amid earth’s weary moil,
And wealth for which men cark and care,
’Mid fortune’s pride, and need’s wild toil,
And broken hearts in purple rare,
Give us Thy grace to rise above
The glare of this world’s smelting fires;
Let God’s great love put out the love
Of gold, and gain, and low desires.
Still, like a breath from scented lime
Borne into rooms where sick men faint,
His voice comes floating through all time,
Thine own evangelist and saint.
Still sweetly rings the Gospel strain
Of golden store that knows not rust:
The love of Christ is more than gain,
And heavenly crowns than yellow dust. |
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