Bringing Our Sheaves with Us

The time for toil is past

and night has come

The last and sad­dest of the har­vest eves;

Worn out with la­bor long and wea­ri­some

Drooping and faint

the reap­ers hast­en home

Each la­den with his sheaves

Each la­den with his sheaves.

Last of the la­bor­ers

Thy feet I gain

Lord of the Har­vest! and my Spir­it grieves

That I am bur­dened not so much with grain

As with a hea­vi­ness of heart and brain;

Master

be­hold my sheaves!

Master

be­hold my sheaves!

Few

light

and worth­less—yet their trif­ling weight

Through all my frame a wea­ry ach­ing leaves;

For long I strug­gled with my hap­less fate

And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late

Yet these are all my sheaves

Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat

Brambles and flow­ers

dry stalks

and wi­thered leaves;

Wherefore I blush and weep

as at Thy feet

I kneel down rev­er­ent­ly

and re­peat

Master

be­hold my sheaves

Master

be­hold my sheaves!

I know these blos­soms

clus­ter­ing hea­vi­ly

With ev­en­ing dew up­on their fold­ed leaves

Can claim no val­ue nor uti­li­ty;

Therefore shall frag­ran­cy and beau­ty be

The glo­ry of my sheaves

The glo­ry of my sheaves.

So do I ga­ther strength and hope anew;

For well I know Thy pa­tient love per­ceives

Not what I did

but what I strove to do;

And

though the full

ripe ears be sad­ly few

Thou will ac­cept my sheaves

Thou will ac­cept my sheaves.