In Due Season
If
night
should
come
and
find
me
at
my
toil,
When
all
Life's
day
I
had,
tho'
faintly,
wrought,
And
shallow
furrows,
cleft
in
stony
soil
Were
all
my
labour:
Shall
I
count
it
naught
If
only
one
poor
gleaner,
weak
of
hand,
Shall
pick
a
scanty
sheaf
where
I
have
sown?
"Nay,
for
of
thee
the
Master
doth
demand
Thy
work:
the
harvest
rests
with
Him
alone."
