It's not the deed we do,
    Though the deed be never so fair,
But the love that the dear Lord looketh for,
    Hidden with lowly care
    In the heart of the deed so fair.

The love is the priceless thing,
    The treasure the treasure must hold,
Or ever the Lord will take the gift,
    Or tell the worth of the gold
    By the love that cannot be told.

Behold us, the rich and the poor,
    Dear Lord, in thy service draw near;
One concecrateth the precious coin,
    One droppeth only a tear;
    Look, Master, the love is here!