Send help, oh Lord, we pray,

And Thy own Gospel bless;

For Godly men decay,

And faithful pastors cease;

The righteous are removed home,

And scorners rise up in their room.

While Satan’s troops are bold,

And thrive in numbers too,

The flocks of Jesus’ fold,

Are growing lank and few;

Old sheep are moving off each year,

And few lambs in the fold appear.

Old shepherds, too, retire,

Who gathered flocks below,

And young ones catch no fire,

Or worldly-prudent grow;

Few run with trumpets in their hand,

To sound alarms by sea and land.

O Lord, stir up Thy power,

To make the Gospel spread;

And thrust out preachers more,

With voice to raise the dead;

With feet to run where Thou dost call;

With faith to fight and conquer all.

[The flocks that long have dwelt

Around fair Zion’s hill,

And Thy sweet grace have felt,

Uphold and feed them still;

But fresh folds built up everywhere,

And plenteous Thy truth declare.]

As one Elijah dies,

True prophet of the Lord,

Let some Elisha rise

To blaze the Gospel-word;

As fast as sheep to Jesus go,

May lambs recruit His fold below.

These words were occasioned by the death of George Whitefield.