Stole the light of a peace divine.
Oh! then my task was a sacred thing,
How precious it grew in my eyes!
’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain
For the “Lord of Paradise.�
And when the reapers shall lay their grain
On the floors of golden light,
I feel that mine with its broken sheaves
Shall be precious in His sight.
Though thorns may often pierce my feet,