When snow-flakes are falling on palace and cot,
And tempest blasts sweep o'er the moor,
And bleakness is found in each beautiful spot,
In mercy remember the poor.

They come in the garment all tatter'd and thin,
And pleadingly stand at your door,
'Tis gladness and warmth and abundance within,
But these are denied to the poor.

The orphan is out with his shelterless head,
But kindness he may not ensure,
When the mother who cradled him sleeps with the dead,
He feels all the woes of the poor.

The widow bends over her desolate hearth,
And the glories of heaven allure,
And she longs to be freed from a heart-chilling earth,
To repose in the grave of the poor.

The grey-headed man asks a refuge above,
For anguish he cannot endure,
No breast of affection, no accents of love,
Remain for the old and the poor.

Then blest be the heart, and thrice-sainted the name,
Of him who can traverse the moor,
To cherish and comfort regardless of fame,
Those children of Jesus — the poor.