Yes, _serving the Lord_; ’mid our toils and our cares May we never forget the great Master we serve, Who the mansions of light for His people prepares; For though man from his Maker can nothing _deserve_, God hath graciously promised Himself to reward Their labours of love who are “serving the Lord.” To the hand ever prompt in the business of life, But which never would close over fraudulent gain, To the heart firm and strong in the world’s busy strife, Which can holy, and humble, and faithful remain, God in life and in death will His blessing accord, “Be not slothful in business, but serving the Lord.” XXXIV. SOCIAL HYMN. How beautiful is Nature’s face! God made all things so fair, Each keeps its own allotted place, Nor hate, nor strife are there. The hill and the plain, The grass and forest tree, The mighty waters of the main, The lily on the lea,— The sunny sky is over all, And all is harmony. So in the social world we stand In God’s appointed way, And some He destines to command, And others to obey. The rich and the poor, The lowly and the great, The peasant at his cottage door, The Sovereign in her state,— One holy tie uniteth all Who on one Master wait. How glorious is the mountain height, Whence kindly streamlets flow To bless the peaceful valleys, bright With bending corn below! The fair mountain-crown Shall envy assail, Or pride trample down The harvest of the vale?— The unity in Nature’s world In Man’s world should prevail. Oh! let not Satan overthrow The order God designed; The seeds of bitter envy sow, And pride, among mankind. Let rich love the poor, The humble bless the great, The servant guard the master’s store, The monarch serve the state,— Each—in his separate sphere—to God His talents consecrate. XXXV. NATIONAL HYMN. O God of Hosts, our fathers’ God, Thy blessing on our country shed, Watch o’er the land our sires have trod, Watch o’er the land our sons will tread. We pray for our Jerusalem, Keep discord from her homes afar, Let thy strong arm deliver them From famine, pestilence, and war. Though Britain spurns th’ invader’s sword As her white cliffs repulse the tide, We would our grateful hearts, O Lord! Lift up in praise, and not in pride. The race is not unto the swift, Nor is the battle to the strong; Success and safety are Thy gift, The glory must to Thee belong. Let our dear land in safety rest, Her people happy, loyal, free, Blest amongst nations—still most blest In that pure faith which leads to Thee! XXXVI. SOLDIER’S HYMN.