GATHERING IN THE SHEAVES.
By L. D. Santee
There's many a soul that's weary, in this world's bitter strife, And many a lip that's parching for a drink of the water of life; And many feet are weary of the roughness of the way, And many hearts discouraged with life's hard, bitter day;— Many the ones that are pressing, instead of the rose, the thorn, And many the bosoms bleeding, by many an anguish torn. Are we raising up the fallen? are we comforting those that grieve? Are we cheering the despondent? thus gathering in the sheaves. Many to-day are weeping for hands that are cold and chill, That are folded in pulseless quiet o'er a bosom white and still; For eyes that are closed and darkened to open on earth no more, For forms that are stilled forever, and gone to the sable shore. Many the lives that are dreary as the drip of November rain, Many the cheek that is wan, and the eye that is dark with pain. Let us point them unto Jesus in the dewy morns and eves, Thus binding the broken hearted, and gathering in the sheaves. There is work in life's great harvest for reapers strong and bold, There are fainting hearts to comfort, there are aching heads to hold. There's glorious work for the reaper through all of the busy day, Till the heat and the glare of the noontide has faded to evening's gray;— Till the deepening of the shadow tells that the day is done, And the trumpet of the Master shall gather the reapers home. Soon will our work be finished, closed by the coming eve; Patience—and ne'er be weary gathering in the sheaves. Life, with its shade and sunshine, is passing fast away, And more of sorrow than joy fills up the weary day. Weeping instead of rejoicing, labor instead of rest, Parting instead of meeting—such is the lot of the best. Shortly the evening cometh; soon will the long day close,— Then will our rest be sweet, with freedom from all earth's woes; Then will be crowns of glory—never a reaper grieves, But we'll come at the call of Jesus, laden with golden sheaves. L. D. SANTEE. Sherman City, Kansas.