WORK WHILE THE DAY LASTS.
By R. F. Cottrell
Work while 'tis day; soon cometh the night
In which no work is done;
Improve the precious hours of light,
Ere they shall all be gone. Days, months, and years, swift passing by,
Pause not, though you may sleep;
A faithful record up on high
The holy angels keep. That record, though another write,
Is dictated by you;
Deeds, words, and thoughts, in living light,
Delineated true. And soon that record you shall meet,
And then it will be known
Whether "Well done," your ear shall greet,
"Sit down upon my throne;" Or you shall hear the word, "Depart,
You are not known of Heaven;"
And you shall wail with broken heart,
Too late to be forgiven. Let these few, fleeting moments write
A record true above,
Of actions that will bear the light,
Of words and works of love!