We may not climb the heavenly steeps
To bring the Lord Christ down;
In vain we search the lowest deeps,
For him no depths can drown.
But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is he;
And faith has still its Olivet
And love its Galilee.
The healing of his seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.
Through him the first fond prayers are said
Our lips of childhood frame;
The last low whispers of the dead
Are burdened with his name.
Our Lord and Master of us all!
Whate'er our name or sign,
We own thy sway, we hear thy call
We test our lives by thine.