NOTHING BUT LEAVES

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 7, 1873

NOTHING BUT LEAVES.

God pity the one who, looking back, Sees no fruit on life's beaten track.

Nothing but leaves in the path of life, No fruit to tell of an ended strife.

Nothing but leaves in the morning fair; Nothing but leaves in the noon-day glare.

Nothing but leaves at the setting sun; Nothing but leaves when the day is done.

Where are your harvests of golden thought? While sunlight lasted, you should have wrought.

You sowed no seed with careful hand, But thoughtlessly scattered it over the land,

And lo! as you sowed you must also reap; Too late, ah, too late! to stand and weep!

You have not obeyed the Master's call: “Work in my vineyard” ere darkness fall!

To none you spoke of a Saviour's love, Of the beautiful Zion so far above;

Of the golden streets that no eye hath seen, Or the river of life with its silver sheen.

Of the tree of knowledge no fruit you bear; Oh! why have you wasted a life so fair?

Oh! why have you fought so vain a strife, And looked not to the end of the battle of life?

You have given no thought to the other land, To the day when you'll cross the river's strand—

The river of death, with its solemn flow, Where the mystic life-boats come and go.

And as you stand on that river's shore And look o'er the path you may tread no more,

You will bow your head with shame and fear And the Master's call you will dread to hear;

For the Master's work is not yet done, And lo! he calls at the setting sun.

But alas! in place of golden sheaves, You carry nothing but withered leaves;

And thus you must pass to the other side Of the river of death, with its rushing tide.

—From The Balance, Chicago.