A task becomes a privilege
when, before the labor starts,
the heart declares with lifted voice
for the glory of our Savior!

No longer drudgery’s cold chain,
no longer burden’s heavy stone—
the soul is clothed in Heaven’s flame
and every step is winged, alone.

What once was toil in mortal dust
now sings as incense to the skies;
the hands that work, the feet that trust,
are carried upward where grace flies.

So let the morning’s first true word
be praise that turns the yoke to gold:
“For the glory of our Savior, Lord!”—
and earthly labor turns to soul.

Heavenly wings unfold in light;
the task, once small, grows vast with love.
What mortal eyes see only night
the Spirit sees as courts above.

Declare it boldly, child of grace—
before the hammer, brush, or pen—
and watch the ordinary place
become the very throne room then.