HE SENT THEM INTO HIS VINEYARD,
By Bonar
Shall this life of mine be wasted?
Shall this vineyard lie untilled?
Shall true joy pass by untasted?
And this soul remain unfilled? Shall the God-given hours be scattered,
Like the leaves upon the plain?
Shall the blossoms die unwatered
By the drops of heavenly rain? Shall I see each fair sun waking,
And not feel it wakes for me?
Each glad morning brightly breaking,
And not feel it breaks for me? Shall I see the roses blowing,
And not wish to bloom as they?
Holy fragrance round me throwing,
Luring others on the way? Shall I hear the free bird singing
In the summer's stainless sky,
Far aloft its glad flight winging,
And not seek to soar as high? Shall this heart still spend its treasures
On the things that fade and die?
Shall it count the hollow pleasures
Of bewildering vanity? Shall these lips of mine be idle?
Shall I open them in vain?
Shall I not, with God's own bridle,
Their frivolities restrain? Shall these eyes of mine still wander?
Or, no longer turned afar,
Fix a firmer gaze and ponder
On the bright and morning Star? Shall these feet of mine, delaying,
Still in ways of sin be found?
Braving snares and madly straying,
On the world's bewitching ground? No; I was not born to trifle
Life away in dreams of sin!
No; I must not, dare not, stifle
Longings such as these within! Swiftly moving upward, onward,
Let my soul in faith be borne;
Calmly gazing skyward, sunward,
Let my eye, unshrinking, turn! Where the Cross, God's love revealing,
Sets the fettered spirit free,
Where it sheds its wondrous healing,
There, my soul, thy rest shall be! Then no longer idly dreaming
Shall I fling my years away;
But each precious hour redeeming,
Wait for the eternal day!