NO fable old, nor mythic lore,
Nor dream of bards and seers,
No dead fact stranded on the shore
Of the oblivious years;— ​

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is He,
And faith hath still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.

The healing of His seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.

O Lord and Savior of us all!
O blessed Christ Divine!
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
We test our lives by Thine.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,
In various phrase we pray;
But, dim or clear, we own in Thee
The light, the Truth, the Way.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,
What may Thy service be?
Not name, nor form, nor ritual word,
But simply following Thee.

To do Thy will is more than praise,
As words are less than deeds,
And simple trust can find Thy ways
We miss with charts of creeds.