Septuagesima Sunday

So early in the morning.
My Master! call'd by Thee,
And sent into Thy vineyard
A labourer to be;
Ah! woe were I complaining
Of burden or of heat.
To work for Thee, my Saviour,
Is in itself so sweet.

If I from early morning
For Thee, my God, have toil'd.
Have hurt my hands with labour.
My brow with heat have soil'd.
Was not Thy care my shelter?
Was not Thy love my rest?
Was not my pillow nightly.
Sweet Saviour, on Thy breast?

Thou didst not leave me idle
To waste my life away.
But Thou didst call me early.
Just at my dawn of day;
I never knew the moment
In which I might not claim
The comfort of Thy kindness.
The honour of Thy Name.

And when the evening closes,
And Thou dost summon me
Home to receive the wages
Of all my toil for Thee,
To me will naught be owing, —
Thou didst, from day to day.
For my poor work so largely
With tender-mercies pay.

I ask no wage for service.
Lest death the wages prove.
Whatever, Lord, Thou givest.
Give for Thine own dear love;
The love that call'd me early.
The love, that all along
Bore with me, be my wages,
As it is now my song.