A Country Thanksgiving Sermon.
By Pacific Rural Press
Ay, goodman, close the great barn door;
The yellow harvest time is o'er;
The earth has given her treasures meet
Of golden corn and bearded wheat.
You and your neighbors well have wrought,
And of the summer's bounty caught;
Won from her smiles and from her tears
Much goods, perhaps, for many years.
You come a tribute now to pay—
The bells proclaim Thanksgiving Day.
Well have you sown, well have you reaped;
And of the riches you have heaped,
You think perhaps that you will give
A part, that others, too, may live.
But if such argument you use,
Your niggard bounty I refuse.
No gifts you on the altar lay,
In any sense are given away.
Lo! rings from heaven a voice abroad;
"Who helps God's poor doth lend the Lord."
What is your wealth? He'd have you know
To hold it, you must let it go.
Think you the hand by heaven struck cold
Will yet have power to clutch its gold?
Shrouds have no pockets, do they say?
Behold, I show you then the way:
Wait not till death shall shut the door,
But send your cargoes on before.
Lo! he that giveth of his hoard
To help God's poor doth lend the Lord.
To-day, my brethren—do not wait;
Just yonder stands dame Kelly's gate;
And would you build a mansion fair
In heaven, send your lumber there;
Each stick that on her wood-pile lies
May raise a dome beyond the skies;
You stop the rents within her walls,
And yonder rise your marble halls;
For every pane that stops the wind
There shineth one with jasper lined.
Your wealth is gone, your form lies cold,
But in the city paved with gold
Your hoard is held in hands Divine;
It bears a name that marks it thine.
Behold the bargain ye have made,
With usury the debt is paid.
No moth doth eat, no thieves do steal,
No suffering heart doth envy feel.
Ring out the words, who of his hoard
Doth help God's poor doth lend the Lord!
Go get your cargoes under way;
The bells ring out Thanksgiving Day!
—Pacific Rural Press.