“O, Not for these alone I pray,”

The dying Saviour said;

Though on his breast that moment lay

The loved disciple’s head;

Though to his eye that moment sprung

The kind, the pitying tear

For those that eager round him hung,

His words of love to hear.

No, not for them alone he prayed;—

For all of mortal race,

Whene’er their fervent prayer is made,

Where’er their dwelling-place.

Sweet is the thought, when here we meet,

His feast of love to share;

And, ’mid the toils of life, how sweet

The memory of his prayer!