THE CURSE OF EMPTY HANDS.
By E. E. Rexford
At dawn the call was heard,
And busy reapers stirred
Along the highway leading to the wheat.
"Wilt reap with us?" they said.
I smiled, and shook my head;
"Disturb me not," said I; "my dreams are sweet." I sat with folded hands,
And saw, across the lands,
The waiting harvest shining on the hill;
I heard the reapers sing,
Their songs of harvesting,
And thought to go, but dreamed and waited still! The day at last was done,
And homeward, one by one,
The reapers went, well laden as they passed;
Theirs was no misspent day,
No long hours dreamed away
In sloth, that turns to sting the soul at last. A reaper lingered near;
"What!" cried he, "idle here?
Where are the sheaves your hands have bound to-day?"
"Alas!" I made reply,
"I let the day pass by
Until too late to work; I dreamed the hours away." "Oh, foolish one!" he said,
And sadly shook his head—
"The dreaming soul is in the way of death."
The harvest soon is o'er;
Rouse up and dream no more!
Act! for the summer fadeth like a breath. "What if the Master come
To-night and call your name,
Asking how many sheaves your hands have made?
If, at the Lord's command,
You showed but empty hands,
Condemned, your dreaming soul would stand dismayed." Filled with strange terror then,
Lest chance come not again,
I sought the wheat-fields while the others slept.
"Perhaps, ere break of day,
The Lord will come this way,"
A voice kept saying, till with fear I wept. Through all the long, still night,
Among the wheat-fields white,
I reaped and bound the sheaves of yellow grain.
I dared not pause to rest,
Such fear possessed my breast;
So for my dreams I paid the price in pain. But when the morning broke,
And rested reapers woke,
My heart leaped up as sunrise kissed the lands;
For come he soon or late,
The Lord of the estate
Would find me bearing not the curse of empty hands.
—E. E. Rexford, in Christian Union.