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  Idle  

 

"Work to-day in my vineyard!"

Hast thou, then, been called to labor
    In the vineyard of thy Lord,
With the promise that, if faithful,
    Thou shall win a sure reward?--
Look! the tireless sun is hasting
    Toward the zenith, and the day,
Which in vanity thou'rt wasting,
    Speedeth rapidly away!

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
    And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant!
    Find no work that thou canst do?
Sitting idle in the vineyard!
    Sleeping, while the noon-day flies!
Dreaming, while with every pulse-beat
    Some unsaved one droops and dies!

Waken! overburdened lab'rers,
    Fainting in the sultry ray,
Cry against thee to the Master
    As thou dream'st the hours away
Waken! patient angels bearing
    Home Earth's harvest, grieving see
One by one the bright hours waning,
    And no sheaf secured by thee!

And at last, when toil is ended,
    And the blessed "Harvest home,"
By exulting angels chanted,
    Cheers the lab'rers as they come,
What wilt thou do, slothful servant,
    With no gathered sheaf to bring?
How canst thou stand, empty-handed,
    In the presence of thy King?

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
    And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant.
    Find no work that thou canst do?
Angels wait to bear the tidings
    Of some good that thou hast done;
Then, to patient, earnest labor,
    Waken, ere the set of sun!

       - Mrs. J. C. Yule


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