Bringing Home Our Sheaves

Verse 1

The time for toil is past, and night has come, The last and saddest of the harvest eves; Worn out with labor long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Each laden with his sheaves, Each laden with his sheaves.

Verse 2

Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight Thro' all my frame a weary aching leaves; For long I struggled with my hapless fate, And staid and toiled till it was dark and late, Yet these are all my sheaves, Yet these are all my sheaves.

Verse 3

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, Brambles and flow'rs, dry stalks and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet I kneel down reverently, and repeat, "Master, behold my sheaves," "Master, behold my sheaves."

Verse 4

So do I gather hope and strength anew; For well I know thy patient love perceives Not what I did, but what I strove to do— And though the full ripe ears be sadly few, Thou wilt accept my sheaves, Thou wilt accept my sheaves.