And the Sheaves Are Still Coming In
"Go, work in my vineyard!" The Master spoke
To the list'ning heart of Youth;
"The world is my vineyard; go forth and sow
The Life-giving seed of Truth!"
And forth to the sowing, with ardent zeal
And a love for mankind akin
To the Master's own, he joyfully went,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
He quickened ambition's sluggish soil,
And freely scattered the seeds;
The blades spring up, and life takes on
A passion for worthy deeds.
New visions catch the opening eye,
Fresh purposes begin;
The sower sowed with a lavish trust,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
He turned deep furrows in shadowed soil,
Where the weeds of dark despair
Were the only growth; the seeds of Hope
He patiently planted there.
A harvesting of wheat appears
Where lately tares had been;
The sower in love had graciously sown,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
The years speed on; in manhood's glow
He is sowing with vigilant care;
There are fields that call for the Seed of Life,—
He is finding them everywhere.
He is steadfastly doing the Master's work,
Unheeding the clamor and din
Of a restless world; he quietly sows,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
At threescore years: does he stay his hand
In token of lessening powers?
He takes no note of vanishing time
Save to honor its golden hours.
He only kens 'tis the Master's wish
That his strength be given to win
The harvests of Truth; he scatters the seed,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
Threescore and ten: he has surely laid
The burden of sowing down?
He is far afield and with glow of soul
Is wearing the years' bright crown.
In his zeal for service he does not ask
When the days of rest begin;
Enough to know there is seed to sow;
And the sheaves are still coming in.
And what of the sower at fourscore years?
Has the vineyard a place for him still?
In joy of service and glow of zeal
He is sowing with marvelous skill.
He has sown in faith through many years,
And rich have the harvests been;
His forward look is a look of trust,
For the sheaves are still coming in.
Ah! Brother, thy summons to riches' quest
Was the call of the Voice Divine;
Thou hast shaped thy will to the Master's word,
And Infinite wealth is thine.
'Twas thy constant aim, from the fields of Time,
Eternal treasures to win;
That aim was blessed; to thy lasting joy
The sheaves are still coming in.
And when thou art called from the toil of earth
To the larger service Above,
And shalt hear the Master's questioning voice,
In accents of Infinite Love,
"What is the measure of golden grain
Thou didst wrest from the fields of sin?"
The Angel of Record will testify,
"The sheaves are still coming in."
"Call him not old, although the flight of years
Has measured off the allotted term of life!
Call him not old, since neither doubts nor fears
Have quenched his hope throughout the long, long strife!
They are not old though days of youth have fled,
Who quaff the brimming cup of peace and joy!
They are not old who from life's hidden springs
Find draughts which still refresh but never cloy."