O Father! Thou dost love, Thou canst not hate,
It is Thy very nature to be blest
In giving all Thy creatures all the best,
We love what we create.

Even with us, Thy special image Man,
Our various works to us are ever dear,
For labour sweetens all its conquests here
Outblessing all its ban.

Whatever with an earnest heart we do,
Fashioning, or improving, in hot zeal,
Therewith we mix ourselves, and strongly feel
Our works our children too.

The book, the statue, nay the trees we set,
The painting, or the building, or this rhyme,
Whatever is our offspring for the time,
It hath our yearnings yet.

O Father! then we need not fear the lot
Of being overlook'd, since Thou hast made;
We cling to Thee securely, unafraid
That Thou rememberest not.

Never was Fatherhood allied with hate;
Thou art all love: accept us; for we know
That we can sympathise; yea, deeply so;
We love what we create.