Thomas Toke Lynch (1818–1871)

DISMISS me not Thy service, Lord,

But train me for Thy will;

For even I in fields so broad

Some duties may fulfil;

And I will ask for no reward,

Except to serve Thee still.

How many serve, how many more

May to the service come;

To tend the vines, the grapes to store,

Thou dost appoint for some:

Thou hast Thy young men at the war,

Thy little ones at home.

All works are good, and each is best,

As most it pleases Thee;

Each worker pleases when the rest

He serves in charity:

And neither man nor work unblest

Wilt Thou permit to be.

O ye who serve, remember One

The worker’s way who trod;

He served as man, but now His throne,

It is the throne of God:

The sceptre He hath to us shown

Is like a blossoming rod.

Firm fibres of the tree of life

Hath each command of His,

And each with clustering blossoms rife

At every season is;

Bare only, like a sword of strife,

Against love’s enemies.

Our Master all the work hath done

He asks of us to-day;

Sharing His service, every one

Share too His sonship may.

Lord, I would serve and be a son;

Dismiss me not, I pray.