IF we should see one sowing seed With patient care and toil and pain, Then to some other garden speed And sow again; And so right on from day to day, And so right on through months and years, Watering the furrows all the way With rain of tears; Ne'er gladdened by the yellowing top Of harvest, nor of ripened rose, Till suddenly the plough should stop, -- The work-day close; Should we not, as hte day ran by, Wonder to see him take no ease, And cry at nightfall, "Vanity Of Vanities!" And yet 't is thus, my friend, the hours And days go by, with you and me. We, too, are sowing seeds of flowers We never see. Sometimes we sow in soil of sin; Sometimes where choking thorns abound; And sometimes cast our good seed in Dry, stony ground. Our stalks spring up and fade and die Under the burning noontide heat, And hopes and plans about us lie All incomplete; And as the toilsome days go by Unrespited with flowery ease, Angels may cry out, "Vanity Of Vanities!" Oh, when, fruitionless, the night Descends upon our day of ills, God grant we find our harvests white On heavenly hills. |