God's ministers are many,For this His gracious will,Remembrancers that day and nightThis holy office fill.While some are hushed in slumber,Some to fresh service wake,And thus the saintly numberNo change or chance can break.And thus the sacred coursesAre evermore fulfilled,The tide of grace by time or placeIs never stayed or stilled. Oh, if our ears were opened To hear as angels doThe Intercession-chorusArising full and true,We should hear it soft up-wellingIn morning's pearly white;Through evening's shadow swellingIn grandly gathering might;The sultry silence fillingOf noontide's thunderous glow,And the solemn starlight thrillingWith ever-deepening flowWe should hear it through the rushingOf the city's restless roar,And trace its gentle gushingO'er ocean's chrystal floor:We should hear it far up-floatingBeneath the Orient moon,And catch the golden notingFrom the busy Western noon;And pine-robed heights would echoAs the mystic chant-up floats,And the sunny plains resound againWith the myriad-mingling notesWho are the blessed ministersOf this world-gathering band ?All who have learnt one language,Through each far-parted land;All who have learnt the storyOf Jesus' love and grace,And are longing for His gloryTo shine in every face.All who have known the FatherIn Jesus Christ our Lord.And know the might and love the light Of the Spirit in the Word.Yet there are some who see notTheir calling high and grand,Who seldom pass the portals,And never boldly standBefore the golden altarOn the crimson-stained floor,Who wait afar and falter,And dare not hope for more. Will ye not join the blessed ranksIn their beautiful array ?Let intercession blend with thanksAs ye minister today !There are hands too often wearyWith the business of the day,With God-entrusted duties,Who are toiling while they pray.They bear the golden vials,And the golden harps of praiseThrough all the daily trials,Through all the dusty ways,These hands, so tired, so faithful,With odors sweet are filled,And in the ministry of prayerAre wonderfully skilled.There are ministers unlettered,Not of Earth's great and wise,Yet mighty and unfetteredTheir eagle-prayers arise.Free of the heavenly storehouse !For they hold the master-keyThat opens all the fullnessOf God's great treasury.They bring the needs of others,And all things are their own,For their one grand claim is Jesus' NameBefore their Father's throne. So the incense-cloud ascendethAs through calm, crystal air,A pillar reaching unto heavenOf wreathed faith and prayer. For evermore the Angel Of intercession standsIn His Divine PriesthoodWith fragance-filled hands,To wave the golden censerBefore His Father's throne,With Spirit-fire intenserAnd incense all His own.And evermore the Father Sends radiantly downAll-marvelous responses,His ministers to crown;The incense-cloud returningAs golden blessing-showersWe in each drop discerningSome feeble prayer of ours,Transmuted into wealth unpriced,By Him who giveth thusThe glory all to Jesus Christ,The gladness all to us !F.R. Havergal