Classic Poem

WHILE others sing thy praise,
And tell of mercies given,
An infant band would raise,
Their little hymn to Heaven:
Thou wilt receive us, gracious King,
Though stammering lips are all we bring.

Thy temple gates we love,
We love our pastor dear,
Oh, never would we rove,
But seek instruction here:
Till age has silver'd o'er our head,
Lord, give us evermore this bread.

Oh, bless our Teacher kind,
Who labors for our good,
Her lessons may we mind,
And profit as we should,
Try to remember what we hear,
And always feel that God is near.

Dear Maker, change our hearts,
Through Jesus Christ thy Son,
Well may we act our parts,
Till all our work is done:
Then may we gain, through heavenly might,
A crown of gold—a robe of light.