“That both he that soweth, and he that reapeth, may rejoice together.”
From the far-off fields of earthly toil
A goodly host they come,
And sounds of music are on the air,—
‘Tis the song of the Harvest Home.
The weariness and the weeping—
The darkness has all passed by,
And a glorious sun has risen—
The Sun of Eternity!
We’ve seen those faces in days of yore,
When the dust was on their brow,
And the scalding tear upon their cheek—
Let us look at the laborers now!
We think of the life-long sorrow,
And the wilderness days of care;
We try to trace the tear-drops,
But no scars of grief are there.
There’s a mystery of soul-chastened joy
Lit up with sun-light hues,
Like morning flowers most beautiful,
When wet with midnight dews.
There are depths of earnest meaning
In each true and trustful gaze,
Telling of wondrous lessons
Learned in their pilgrim days.
And a conscious confidence of bliss,
That shall never again remove,—
All the faith and hope of journeying years,
Gathered up in that look of love.
The long waiting days are over;
They’ve received their wages now;
For they’ve gazed upon their Master,
And His name is on their brow.
They’ve seen the safely-garnered sheaves,
And the song has been passing sweet,
Which welcomed the last in-coming one
Laid down at their Saviour’s feet.
Oh! well does His heart remember,
As those notes of praise sweep by,
The yearning, plaintive music
Of earth’s sadder minstrelsy.
And well does He know each checkered tale,
As He looks on the joyous band—
All the lights and shadows that crossed their path,
In the distant pilgrim-land;—
The heart’s unspoken anguish—
The bitter sighs and tears—
The long, long hours of watching—
The changeful hopes and fears!
One had climbed the rugged mountain-side;
‘Twas a bleak and wintry day;
The tempest had scattered his precious seed,
And he wept as he turned away.
But a stranger-hand had watered
That seed on a distant shore,
And the laborers now are meeting,
Who had never met before.
And one—he had toiled amid burning sands,
When the scorching sun was high:
He had grasped the plow with a fevered hand,
And then laid him down to die:
But another, and yet another,
Had filled that deserted field,
Nor vainly the seed they scattered,
Where a brother’s care had tilled.
Some with eager steps went boldly forth,
Broad casting o’er the land;
Some watered the scarcely budding blade,
With a tender, gentle hand.
There’s one, her young life was blighted,
By the withering touch of woe;
Her days were sad and weary,
And she never went forth to sow.
But there rose from her lonely couch of pain,
The fervent pleading prayer;
She looks on many a radiant brow,
And she reads the answers there!
Yes! sowers and reapers are meeting;
A rejoicing host they come!
Will you join that echoing chorus?—
‘Tis the song of the Harvest Home!