IN THE VINEYARD.
I am God's hireling, not his child beloved;In the wide market-place I stand and waitFor the brief nod and gesture of the FateThat motions me to weal or woe, unmoved.
Nor lives this daring in my vexéd mind,To struggle towards him for a moment's ease,As a babe, striving towards his father's knees,Looks up for love in eyes unchanging kind.
"Where is thy treasure," those stern eyes should say,"Flung to the winds with wild and haughty thrift?What was the traffic of thy holy gift?"And I should smother sobs, and turn away.
Yet dwells remembrance in my inmost soul,Of happy tasks, and toil divinely glad,When I stood armed for action ere he bade,And, bounding at his voice, o'erstripped the goal.
