O lord, Thou art not fickle

O lord, Thou art not fickle;
Our hope is not in vain;
The harvest for the sickle
Will ripen jet 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.