Strike the chords softly with tremulous fingers,
While, on the threshold of happiest years,
For a brief moment fond memory lingers,
Ere we go forth to life's conflicts and fears!
Strike the chords softly!—yet no, as we tarry,
Swiftly the morning is gliding away;
Weary ones droop 'neath the burdens they carry,
Toiling ones faint in the heat of the day.
Let us not linger!—Earth's millions are crying
"Come to us, aid us, we grope in the night!
Come to us, aid us, we're perishing, dying—
Give us, oh, give us, the heavenly Light!"
Let us not linger!—our brethren are calling,—
"Aid us, the harvest increases each day;—
Some have grown weary, alas, of their toiling!—
Others have passed from their labors away."
Gracious Redeemer we go at thy bidding,
Gladly encountering peril and loss;
Take us—ourselves to thy work we are giving,
Give us—'tis more than we merit—thy cross!