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The Reapers Are The Angels
How few the reapers in life's whitening fields!How many, preying on the ripening ears,
Forever scatter all the harvest yields,
Planted with toil, and wet with many tears!
Ah, little know they at what price was sown
The seed field of the world, a waste before;
When He, who sowed the seed, went forth alone,
And all the toil, and all the suffering bore.
But soon the Husbandman his heirs shall send,
Who, from the tares, shall cull the precious wheat;
And, from the heavens, the Son himself descend,
And with his welcome every laborer greet;
And give the weary ones his peace, his rest,
And to the feast invite each ransomed guest.
Poem No. 185; c. 12 October 1850
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