We bow at the feet of the Master,
We stand to obey His call,
We live but to practise His teachings,
To offer our service to all;
But the glamour of earth is insistent,
Its confusion, its hurry and din,
So ceaseless keen be our vigil,
That we lose no hint from within.

Waiting the word of the Master,
Watching the hidden Light;
Listening to catch His orders
In the very midst of the fight;
Seeing His slightest signal
Across the heads of the throng:
Hearing His faintest whisper
Above earth's loudest song.

What then is the word of the Master,
And what will He have us do?
Perchance He hath watchword or motto,
A war cry to carry us through.
Yes, this is the word of the Master,
The mandate that comes from above,
The command from the royal headquarter,
The paramount order is Love.