Forty years through deserts dreary,
Moses led God’s people on,
Neither age nor cares could weary,
Till his Master’s work was done.
Where he once, a child, had floated,
There he waved his mystic rod;
There the prophet, so devoted,
Turned the river into blood.
When at length his hair grew hoary,
Honoured, useful, blessing, blest,
God received him up to glory,
Changed his labour into rest.
Thus we learn, whate’er betide them,
Saints are safe, though hope be dim;
He, the Lord, will keep and guide them,
Honour those who honour Him.