1 |O, Not for these alone I pray,|
The dying Saviour said;
Though on his breast that moment lay
The loved disciple's head;
2 Though to his eye that moment sprung
The kind, the pitying tear
For those that eager round him hung,
His words of love to hear.
3 No, not for them alone he prayed; --
For all of mortal race,
Whene'er their fervent prayer is made,
Where'er their dwelling-place.
4 Sweet is the thought, when here we meet,
His feast of love to share;
And, 'mid the toils of life, how sweet
The memory of his prayer!