Poems of home and country :: :: University of Virginia Library

'T is mine to wield the sickle,
Thine, Lord, to give the sheaf;
Through Thee the buds of spring-time
Burst into life and leaf.
Mine is the toil of seed-time,
And Thine the sun and rain;
Mine is the sweat and patience,
And Thine the ripened grain.

219

Though wan and weary reapers
Amid their labors fall,
And workmen, few and scattered,
In vain for helpers call;
Though noontide heat burns fiercely,
Or threatening tempest lowers,—
The gathering and the gleaning
Is by mightier strength than ours.

We can wait with calm endurance,
Though the drought curls up the leaf;
We can trust Jehovah-jireh
To fill the swelling sheaf.
'T is ours the sturdy muscle,
The vigorous arm to bring;
'T is Thine with heavenly blessing
To make the valleys sing.

We shall reach the outmost furrows,
In their drooping tassels dressed;
Beyond the field of labor,
We shall find a place of rest.
We shall meet again the reapers
Who share our grief and joy;
In the harvest-song of glory,
We shall find one blest employ.

The eagle from her eyrie
Flies forth at dawn of day,
Poised on her fearless pinions,
With God to guide her way,
Soars upward, as the morning
Glows with God's glory bright,
On, till her form, receding,
Loses itself in light.

220

So, when the work is ended,—
The garnered crop secure,—
And God shall bid His reapers
Toil in the heat no more;
We from all care and sorrow
Shall find divine relief,
And lay before our Master
The sickle and the sheaf.