THE LABORERS by Mary Martin

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 3, 1872

THE LABORERS

By Mary Martin

“The harvest truly is great, but the laborers are few.”—Luke.

“Lift up your eyes and look on the fields: for they are white already to harvest.”—John.

The morn was bright and golden, And the Saviour’s words were sweet; I rose to do his bidding, To look on the rip’ning wheat.

Along the sloping hillside, And across the lower plain, By river, wood, and mountain, Were the fields of waving grain.

The harvest moon was hidden By the lighter blaze of day That fell on the Master’s reapers Along the toilsome way.

Some forms were bent and weary, And some were brave and strong, While some were only children,— All joined the harvest song.

Autumnal leaves of beauty, And flowers strangely fair Were growing near, and many chose To go and gather there.

I listened to the voices, Wondering what each would say. The faithful ones entreated, Work with us, while ’tis day.

The gath’ring shades betoken That night is drawing on, The Master has commanded To work while he is gone.

Think of him, wan and weary, How he worked and wept alone, And can we lightly value The deathless love he’s shown?

On his locks fell dews of evening, And grief o’erspread his brow, Where a coronet of glory Is ever resting now.

O, come, the day is waning, And summer’ll soon be gone, The harvest past and ended, The laborer’s work all done.

They heeded not, but wandered Where it was smooth and fair, Along life’s easier pathway, That brought to them no care.

The faithful ones were falling, While grasping precious grain, But they will have a rich reward When the Master comes again.

The shades of night have fallen, The fields are clean and bare, The Master comes to reckon With those who gathered there.

He looks o’er the group assembled, The tares as well as wheat, And then pronounces sentence On all, as he deems meet.

I looked for the worn and weary, For the wrinkled brow and face, It was lighted up with glory That had taken sorrow’s place.

The tones were deep and musical That spoke the words, “Well done.” The hand was fair that placed the crown The faithful laborer won.

And he said, O dearest Master, Say, what have I done for thee That thou should’st come from glory And thus remember me?

And the Master said, The fields were white, And so I called for thee; And thou didst gather precious sheaves, Thou didst it all for me.

But thy labor now is ended, And the golden “gates ajar,” Child of my Father, enter in, Where the “many mansions” are.

The other came with head upraised, And said, My Master fair, Wondrous works for thee I’ve done, Can I not enter there?

But the Master looked so calm and stern As he said, I know you not; Ye lived in pleasure—cared not for me, While my wants were all forgot.

And he said, O, when, my Master, Didst ever call for me? When were thy pleadings all forgot? Surely, I’ve worked for thee.

The Master said, The fields were white, I asked thy hands and heart; Thou would’st not help, or try to feel; I only say—Depart!

Father, help me, though so lowly, I among the gleaners stray, That a handful I may gather, To present to thee that day.

MARY MARTIN.

West Rindge, N. H.