When Jesus comes to gather sheaves?
Nay, sowing daily o'er the land,
We'll come with joyful sheaves in hand.
Nor is the precious labor hard,
Its glory is its own reward;
We plant in hearts of grim despair
A life that blooms as Eden fair.
Oh, were this life the utmost span,
The closing destiny of man.
No toil could half so blessed prove