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.
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.
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
molded
by His
life.