Hast Thou
O Lord
a work to do?
Here am I
send me!
The field is white
the lab’rers few
Over mountain
plain or sea
I’ll go to the ends of the earth for Thee
O touch my lips with fire divine
The dross consume
the gold refine
A lowly vessel at Thy feet
O cleanse and for Thy use make meet
My heart now longs and yearns to go
To reap Thy harvest here below
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