WORK WHILE THE DAY LASTS.
By Roswell F. Cottrell
The day is gliding fast away,
The night comes on apace,
Soon ends the time in which we may
Work for our fallen race. The work is great still to be done,
Wide fields, already white;
And loudly the declining sun
Says, Work, with all your might. Say not ye, There are months to come,
We need not be in haste;
The harvest must be gathered home—
There is no time to waste. The reaper wages rich receives,
A glorious reward;
He enters, with his gathered sheaves,
Joint heirship with his Lord! The joy that fills the Saviour's heart,
When his redeemed he sees;
In this the reaper has a part,
In measure it is his. Then up, and toil with sacrifice,
It will not be in vain;
Suffer with Christ, you soon shall rise,
And ever with him reign.