Thomas Toke Lynch (1818–1871)

O LORD, Thou art not fickle;

Our hope is not in vain;

The harvest for the sickle

Will ripen yet again.

But though enough be given

For all the world to eat,

Sin with thy love has striven

Its bounty to defeat.

Were men to one another

As kind as God to all,

Then no man on his brother

For help would vainly call.

On none for idle wasting

Would honest labour frown;

And none, to riches hasting,

Would tread his neighbour down.

O, is there one in twenty

With his own lot content,

Though God has bread and plenty

To all the nations sent?

Till heart to heart is plighted

In faith on heaven above,

Earth’s harvests must be blighted

For want of mutual love.

No man enough possesses

Until he has to spare;

Possession no man blesses

While self is all his care.

For blessings on our labour,

O, then, in hope we pray,

When love unto our neighbour

Is ripening every day.