To whom do I obedience owe, Who should my willing service claim? One master dwelling here below, And One above the starry frame. Oh! may the thought of Him above, Each Christian servant’s zeal awake, To serve with faithfulness and love— For Christ, our heavenly Master’s sake. The earnest follower of the Lord, Must by the badge of truth be known, Integrity that shrinks from fraud, And needs no eye—save God’s alone The cheerful heart, the ready mind That can in labour pleasure take, To every kindly act inclined, For Christ, our heavenly Master’s sake. Though our best service is, we own, To God “unprofitable” still, The Lord, to whom the heart is known, Rewards the attempt to do His will. Oh! through His mercy may we rise, When the last trump our sleep shall break, And find a welcome in the skies, For Christ, our heavenly Master’s sake! XXIX. MINER’S HYMN. When verdant fields are seen no more, Where Heaven’s beams can never shine, Earth’s hidden treasures to explore We labour in the gloomy mine. But bright the torches’ yellow rays That light us on our darksome way, And sweet the voice of Hope that says, “We soon shall see the light of day.” And thus awhile must all mankind Toil on and labour here below, Poor sinful mortals, weak and blind, And subject all to pain and woe. But brightly shines God’s holy Word Which lights us on our darksome way, And sweet the hope its leaves afford, “We soon shall see a heavenly day.” The Lord of Angels deigned to come To bear our punishment and pain, He made our dark abode His home, That we might rise, that we might reign. And those who in His Word delight, Who trust His love, His will obey, Shall shine in robes of spotless white In Heaven’s everlasting day! XXX. GARDENER’S HYMN. Ere our first parents fell, the ground All beauty and abundance crowned; But now the soil our labour needs,— The _earth_ produces thorns and weeds. And trials on our pathway grow, The prickly care, the stinging woe, How oft the wounded spirit bleeds,— Our _life_ produces thorns and weeds. But—worse than all—we find within, The poisoned roots of pride and sin, From them our misery proceeds,— The _heart_ produces thorns and weeds. But, Lord, Thou bidst Thy sunbeams glow, Thy gentle raindrops fall below; When industry has dressed the bowers, The _earth_ produces fruits and flowers. So when Thy love its radiance lends, Thy Spirit like the dew descends, When Faith, and Hope, and Peace are ours, Our _life_ produces fruits and flowers. Oh! lead us to that blissful shore, Where thorns and weeds are known no more, Where Death can never reach the bowers, To blast the fruit or blight the flowers!