WHAT nerves the soldier in the field,
When foes are raging nigh?
What makes him proudly scorn to yield,
Though numbers round him die?
The faith that Heaven directs each ball,
And course that it shall run;—
'Tis, that he knows he will not fall,
Until his work be done!
What makes the sailor on the wreck,
When storms are frowning near,
Bear up, with heart and form erect
His bosom free from fear?—
'Tis that he feels that God is by,
To shield him like a son;—
'Tis, that he knows he will not die,
Until his work be done!
God holds the winds as by a rein,
Which still they must obey;
The ocean fierce he doth restrain,
By his all-guiding sway:
The hand that bears the planets high.
Upholds the fulgent sun,
Has fixed the hour that all must die,
When their set work is done!
What arms the martyr 'midst his fires,
To smile serene at death;
And his whole heart and soul inspires
With never-changing faith?—
Until the victor's crown is gained,
The laurel wreath is won;
Th' oppressor's fury is restrained—
His work must first be done!
What leads Christ's servant still to dare
All dangers for his sake,
And with unshaken firmness bear,
Ills that the boldest shake?
The trust that God is ever nigh,
To prosper what's begun;
To send a blessing from on high,
Upon his work when done!
And when the good fight he has fought,
His earthly struggles o'er,
He finds the recompense he sought,
Where grief is felt no more:
'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize,
His triumph is begun;—
He lives immortal in the skies,
When all his work is done!