“I go; the poor, My poor are with you still,

And ye may help them when and as ye will.”

Such was the legacy incarnate Love

Bequeathed His own before He soar’d above.

Not gold or jewels, but His poor to claim

Our succour for the sake of His dear name.

No weary burden, but a rich bequest,

Whereby who blesses is himself twice bless’d.

Is it not ours today? Are not the poor,

The hungry and the naked, at our door?

And do not still the moans of anguish rise,

By day and night from sufferers to the skies?

The wounded soul, the broken heart's distress;

Tears of the widow and the fatherless?

And He, who gave Himself for all, has given

To us His servants of the balm of heaven.

None are so poor but have some love to show’r

On poorer than themselves, and this is pow’r.

This is the worship pure and undefiled

The father claims of every heav’n-born child.