We feel the parting angel's hand
Is in our midst, to loose the band
So close, so sacred, and so dear,
That long hath bound us, brethren, here.
No more within this hallowed place,
United at the throne of grace,
Our prayers shall rise—our voices pour
In praise, when this, our song is o'er.
To each we hear the Saviour say
We to his work must hence away;
For great the field—the laborers few!
What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?
O send thy Spirit from above
To fire our hearts with heavenly love;
And light our lips with truth, that we
May, witnesses, go forth for thee.
And may we count all else as loss
To spread the glory of thy cross—
From shades and death redeemed, to bring
The priceless jewels of our King.
On distant islands of the sea—
On heathen shores our lot may be,
To dying souls to bear the bread
And balm of life on Calvary shed.
Yet, though our lines be marked afar,
And some beneath a foreign star,
We may look upward to the Sun
Of righteousness, and still be one.
And when our works of faith are past,
In joy we 'll meet on high at last;
And there, in praise, our voices swell
The song, where enters no farewell.