1 O ye who have homes of plenty,
Whose firesides gleam warm and bright,
Who dread not the cold of morning,
And fear not the colder night;
Forget not the poor among you,
Their burdens are hard to bear,
The riches that God has given,
With your lowly brother share.

2 And when at the gate of heaven,
Ye cry, "Savior, let me in,
We've kept all thy dear commandments,
And walk'd all thy ways within;"
The master in loving accents
Will say "Here your home shall be,
For what ye have giv'n my children,
Ye gave, in disguise to me."