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 state why each man should decline;
"I beg of thee have me excused,
I've bought a farm," "I've bought a team,"
"I've got a wife; I must refuse."
How trifling these excuses seem,
Like money put in bags with holes!
They make excuses, just as lame,
For losing their immortal souls!
They fain would think they're not to blame,
They really think that they might try,
Were there not molehills in their way
That to their eyes seem mountains high.
"Besides, I want to have some fun;
My friends the gospel have refused,
And so I guess that, for a time
At least, I'd rather be excused."
"Money is what I'm after now,
To spend old age in ease my goal."
But what shall profit man if he
To gain the world, shall lose his soul?
Poor soul, whate'er be your excuse,
Look forward to that final Day.