1 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.

2 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.

3 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 moulded by His life.