A SABBATH HYMN.
Treasure up, Oh! Christian gleaner, In thy harvest-field of Life,Every kindly word and action, Scattered 'mid the weeds of strife,For, mayhap, there may have fallen, From some sower's garnered store,One golden seed, of Christ's own reaping, That hath yielded, many more.
Not where yellow sheaves are shining, Bursting with their golden grain,Bend thy steps, nor stand repining, That thy hand hath little gained.
At your door there may stand fainting, Hungry, friendless, and alone,A fellow-creature, sadly pleading, Would'st thou give, for bread, a stone?'Mid the labyrinths of creed, Hedged by thorns of unbelief,Some poor sinner may be struggling, Haste thou, to that soul's relief.
