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 why each man will decline:
"I beg of you have me excused—
I've bought a farm"—"I've bought a team"—
"I've got a wife, I cannot come."
How trifling these excuses seem,
Like money put in bags with holes!
They make excuses just as lame
For losing their immortal souls:
"Besides, I want to have some fun"—
"My friends the gospel have refused."
"I really think that for today
At least, I'd rather be excused."
Poor soul! Whatever your excuse,
Look forward to that 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.
So 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!"