1 The world, with siren voice,
Would oft my soul allure,
To swerve me from the better choice,
The good I would secure;
I sing, the pow’r to gain,
This old, familiar strain:

A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify,
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky.

2 I see the harvest field,
The field already white,
And all my life to Christ I yield,
To serve Him with delight;
My heart lifts up, with pray’r,
This old, familiar air.

To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfill,—
O may it all my pow’rs engage,
To do my Master’s will.

3 Temptation throng around;
I know my frailty still;
But faith has found the solid ground,
God will His word fulfill;
His grace lights shadows dim;
I sing the dear, old hymn:

Help me to watch and pray,
And on Thyself rely,
Assured, if I my trust betray,
I shall forever die.