The Toil of Brain, or Heart, or Hand

The toil of brain

or heart

or hand

Is man’s ap­point­ed lot;

He who God’s call can un­der­stand

Will work and mur­mur not.

Toil is no thor­ny crown of pain

Bound round man’s brow for sin;

True souls

from it

all strength may gain

High man­li­ness may win.

O God! Who work­est hi­ther­to

Working in all we see

Fain would we be

and bear

and do

As best it pleas­eth Thee.

Where’er Thou send­est we will go

Nor any quest­ion ask

And what Thou bid­dest we will do

Whatever be the task.

Our skill of hand

and strength of limb

Are not our own

but Thine;

We link them to the work of Him

Who made all life di­vine!

Our bro­ther-friend

Thy ho­ly Son

Shared all our lot and strife;

And no­bly will our work be done

If mold­ed by His life.