The feast has been prepared for all;
The Master of the house has sent
His servants out to call them in;
But they begin with one consent
To say, "Well, now, I hardly know;
I rather guess I cannot come";
"I've bought a farm,"—"I've bought a team,"—
"I'm married,"—and they stay at home.
"I beg of thee, have me excused,"—
"I've bought a farm,"—"I've bought a team,"—
"I'm married and I cannot come,"—
How trifling these excuses seem!
Yet men are round us every day
Who make excuses just as lame
For losing their immortal souls,
And half-way think they're not to blame;
For if 'twere not for certain things,
They really think that they would try;
But there are molehills in their way
That to their eyes seem mountain high.
But, Soul! Whate'er be your excuse,
Look forward to the final day
When you must meet the Lord as Judge;
How will you like to hear Him say—
"I know you not; I asked you once
For your acquaintance, but you know
You said you'd rather be excused,
And I excused you,—long ago!”
"I came to earth and suffered death
That your salvation might be wrought;
But you paid no regard to that,
So now depart,—I know you not.
You are excused from heaven's bliss,—
Excused to hell's eternal woe;—
You know it was your own request,
And I excused you. You may go!”