O child of God, so weary with earth’s toil
And ceaseless strife,
Thy Master chooseth thee for high behest
And fruitful life;
Oh, gladly wait
Beside the portal of the Master’s gate,
To do His bidding, for the day grows late.
Take thou His message, and then hasten back
To His dear feet;
And He will greet thee with His tender love
And comfort sweet;
Then gladly wait
Beside the portal of the Master’s gate
For the next message, as the day grows late.
And mourn not sorely, if thine errand seem
All fruitless now;
The message was thy Master’s, and His mark
Is on thy brow;
And thou didst wait
Beside the portal of the Master’s gate,
As the shades gathered and the day was late.
Not now the time of reckoning; it will come
To thee at last,
And thou wilt smile to think of weary hours
That shall be past,
When thou didst wait,
Beside the portal of the Master’s gate,
To do His bidding, ere it was too late.
From “To Every Man His Work”