The World's Harvest by Dinah Mulock Craik

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Sep 12, 1911

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 38, No. 36.

The World's Harvest

By Dinah Mulock Craik

IN His fields the Master walketh, In His fair fields ripe for harvest, Where the golden sun smiles slantwise On the rich ears, heavy bending; Saith the Master: "It is time." Tho no leaf wears brown decadence, And September's nightly frost-blight Only reddens the horizon, "It is full time," saith the Master— The good Master—"It is time."

Lo! He looks. His look compelling Brings the laborers to the harvest. Quick they gather, as in autumn. Wandering birds in silent eddies Drop upon the pasture-fields; White wings have they, and white raiment, White feet shod with swift obedience; Each lays down his golden palm-branch, And a shining sickle reareth: "Speak, O Master! Is it time?"

O'er the fields the servants hasten, Where the full-stored ears droop downward, Humble with their weight of harvest; Where the empty ears wave upward, And the gay tares flaunt in rows. But the sickles, the bright sickles, Flash new dawn at their appearing; Songs are heard in earth and heaven; For the reapers are the angels, And it is the harvest-time.

O great Master! are Thy footsteps Even now upon the mountains? Art Thou walking in Thy wheat-field? Are the snowy-winged reapers Gathering in the purple air? Are Thy signs abroad?—the glowing Of the evening sky, blood-reddened; And the full ears trodden earthward, Choked by gaudy tares triumphant? Surely 'tis near harvest-time!

Who shall know the Master's coming,— Whether 'tis at morn or sunset, When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears, Or while noon rides high in heaven, Sleeping lies the yellow field? Only may Thy voice, O Master, Peal above the reapers' chorus, And dull sound of sheaves slow falling: "Gather all into My garner, For it is My harvest-time!" —Dinah Mulock Craik.