Christ has done the mighty work;
Nothing left for us to do,
But to enter on his toil,
Enter on his triumph too.

He has sowed the precious seed,
Nothing left for us unsown;
Ours it is to reap the fields,
Make the harvest-joy our own.

His the pardon, ours the sin, —
Great the sin, the pardon great;
His the good and ours the ill,
His the love and ours the hate.

Ours the darkness and the gloom,
His the shade-dispelling light;
Ours the cloud and his the sun,
His the dayspring, ours the night.

His the labour, ours the rest,
His the death and ours the life;
Ours the fruits of victory,
His the agony and strife.