The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy Through nerves unstrung and palsied frame, The feet that travelled for our need, Were nailed unto the cross of shame.
How dare I murmur at my lot, Or talk of sorrow, pain and loss, When Christ was in a manger laid, And died in anguish on the cross.
That homeless one beheld beyond His lonely agonizing pain, A love outflowing from His heart, That all the wandering world would gain.
GO WORK IN MY VINEYARD.
Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord, And gather the bruised grain;But the reapers had left the stubble bare, And I trod the soil in pain.
The fields of my Lord are wide and broad, He has pastures fair and green, And vineyards that drink the golden light Which flows from the sun's bright sheen.
I heard the joy of the reapers' song, As they gathered golden grain;Then wearily turned unto my task, With a lonely sense of pain.
Sadly I turned from the sun's fierce glare, And sought the quiet shade, And over my dim and weary eyes Sleep's peaceful fingers strayed.
I dreamed I joined with a restless throng, Eager for pleasure and gain;But ever and anon a stumbler fell, And uttered a cry of pain.
But the eager crowd still hurried on, Too busy to pause or heed, When a voice rang sadly through my soul, You must staunch these wounds that bleed.
My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine.
And over the shadows of my life Stole the light of a peace divine.
Oh! then my task was a sacred thing, How precious it grew in my eyes!
'Twas mine to gather the bruised grain For the "Lord of Paradise."
And when the reapers shall lay their grain On the floors of golden light, I feel that mine with its broken sheaves Shall be precious in His sight.
Though thorns may often pierce my feet, And the shadows still abide, The mists will vanish before His smile, There will be light at eventide.
