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In humble hearts where self takes lesser throne,
We lift each soul above our pride’s high claim,
Esteeming all as treasures yet unknown,
Their worth in Christ’s own image still the same.
No clamor seeks the crown of fleeting praise,
But gentle hands extend to bear their load,
For in the bending low, we find our days,
Enriched by grace along this sacred road.
His love, the pattern traced in dust and blood,
Compels us to the meek and selfless art,
To wash the feet where once our Master stood,
And bind His joy within each tender heart.
So may we live, their good above our own,
A hymn of lowly love to Him alone.

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