HE THRESHETH OUT HIS WHEAT

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Oct 24, 1900

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 26, No. 43.

HE THRESHETH OUT HIS WHEAT.

WHEN the wheat is carried home, And the threshing-time has come, Close the door; When the flail is lifted high, Like the chaff I would not fly; At His feet, O, let me lie On the floor!

All the sorrows that I feel, All the cares that o'er me steal Like a dart, When my enemies prevail, And my strength begins to fail, 'Tis the beating of the flail On my heart.

It becomes me to be still, Tho I can not all His will Understand. I would be the purest wheat, Living humbly at His feet, Kissing oft the rod that beat, In His hand.

By and by I shall be stored In the garner of the Lord, Like a prize; Thanking Him for every blow That in sorrow laid me low, But in beating made me grow For the skies.

—Selected.