“Feed thou My lambs;” despised on earth The friendless little one may be, But who can tell the priceless worth Of one soul, Lord, redeemed by Thee! May we pursue the blest employ Endowed with wisdom from above, And count it privilege and joy To feed the lambs whom Thou dost love! XXI. WORKMAN’S HYMN. Before the morning’s toil begin, We thank Thee, Giver of all good, For needful health and strength to win, By daily labour, daily food. The seeing eye, the skilful hand, The powerful arm, are gifts from Thee; Thou for our comfort all hast planned, Used to Thy glory all should be. When Thou didst come to visit man, A lowly lot, O Lord, was Thine; In poverty Thy life began, Shall we at poverty repine? Thou who dost all our trials know, Thou who didst all our sorrows share, The comforts of Thy grace bestow, And make us rich in faith and prayer. Soon will the hours of toil be past, And calm repose at night be given; So life’s short day is closing fast, And sweet will be the rest of Heaven! XXII. SEMPSTRESS’S HYMN. Day after day my weary task I ply, And half the night to ceaseless toil is given; When weary is my heart and dim mine eye, I seem to hear the Saviour’s voice from Heaven: “Come unto Me, all ye by toil opprest, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” When all my labour scarce can bread procure, And weak with want my feeble fingers move; When dear ones round me hunger’s pangs endure, My drooping spirit hears that voice of love: “Come unto Me, all ye by grief opprest, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” O Lord, how shall I come? my sinful heart Is prone to murmur, and Thy truth forget; Dare I approach Thee, holy as Thou art? Methinks I hear that gentle whisper yet: “Come unto Me, all ye by sin opprest, Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” Oh, let me patiently await the day When Christ my Lord in glory shall appear, When tears shall be for ever wiped away, And those who trust Him now His voice shall hear: “Come, faithful servants, of My Father blessed, And I will give you everlasting rest.” XXIII. RAGGED BOY’S HYMN. I would not take what is not mine, for hoards of wealth untold,— Far better grasp the red-hot steel, than touch another’s gold; The love of money, God hath said, of evil is the root, And if dishonesty thence spring, destruction is the fruit. I would not take what is not mine, though none were near to see, Conscience would my accuser stand, and God my judge would be; The covetous desire, the wicked thought I would control,— What shall it profit man to gain the world, and lose his soul?