THE MASTER HATH NEED OF THE REAPERS.
By Mrs. Thomson
The Master hath need of the reapers,
And, mourner, he calleth to thee;
Come out from the valley of sorrow,
Look up to the hill-tops, and see
How the fields of the harvest are whitening,
How golden and full is the grain.
Oh! what are thy wants to the summons?
And what are thy griefs and thy pains? The Master hath need of the reapers,
And, idler, he calleth to thee;
Come out from the mansions of pleasure,
From the halls where the careless may be;
Soon the shadow of eve may be falling,
With the mists, and the dews, and the rain;
Oh! what is the world and its follies
To the mold and the rust of the grain! The Master hath need of the reapers,
And, worker, he calleth to thee;
Oh! what are thy dreams of ambition
To the joys that hereafter shall be?
There are tokens of storms that are coming,
And summer is fast on the wane;
Then alas for the hopes of the harvest,
And alas for the beautiful grain. By the wounds of the blessed One calling,
Our Maker, Redeemer, and God;
By the deeds of those reapers now falling,
Of those who sleep under the sod,
Who, counting their lives as but nothing,
Pressed on in the ranks of the host;
Who toiled in the fields of the Master,
And dying, fell dead at their post, By these find the joys that are given,
While toiling and weeping below,
Of pointing one sinner to Heaven,
Oh! list to the summons, and go
To the fields where the harvest is whitening,
For summer is fast on the wane,
And gather the sheaves in the garner,
For golden and ripe is the grain.