THE VINEYARD
At the eleventh hour he came,But his wages were the sameAs ours who all day long had trodThe wine-press of the Wrath of God.When he shouldered through the linesOf our cropped and mangled vines,His unjaded eye could scanHow each hour had marked its man.(Children of the morning-tideWith the hosts of noon had died;And our noon contingents layDead with twilight’s spent array.)Since his back had felt no load,Virtue still in him abode;So he swiftly made his ownThose last spoils we had not won.We went home, delivered thence,Grudging him no recompenseTill he portioned praise or blameTo our works before he came.Till he showed us for our good—Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn—How we might have best withstoodBurdens that he had not borne!
At the eleventh hour he came,But his wages were the sameAs ours who all day long had trodThe wine-press of the Wrath of God.When he shouldered through the linesOf our cropped and mangled vines,His unjaded eye could scanHow each hour had marked its man.(Children of the morning-tideWith the hosts of noon had died;And our noon contingents layDead with twilight’s spent array.)Since his back had felt no load,Virtue still in him abode;So he swiftly made his ownThose last spoils we had not won.We went home, delivered thence,Grudging him no recompenseTill he portioned praise or blameTo our works before he came.Till he showed us for our good—Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn—How we might have best withstoodBurdens that he had not borne!
At the eleventh hour he came,But his wages were the sameAs ours who all day long had trodThe wine-press of the Wrath of God.
At the eleventh hour he came,
But his wages were the same
As ours who all day long had trod
The wine-press of the Wrath of God.
When he shouldered through the linesOf our cropped and mangled vines,His unjaded eye could scanHow each hour had marked its man.
When he shouldered through the lines
Of our cropped and mangled vines,
His unjaded eye could scan
How each hour had marked its man.
(Children of the morning-tideWith the hosts of noon had died;And our noon contingents layDead with twilight’s spent array.)
(Children of the morning-tide
With the hosts of noon had died;
And our noon contingents lay
Dead with twilight’s spent array.)
Since his back had felt no load,Virtue still in him abode;So he swiftly made his ownThose last spoils we had not won.
Since his back had felt no load,
Virtue still in him abode;
So he swiftly made his own
Those last spoils we had not won.
We went home, delivered thence,Grudging him no recompenseTill he portioned praise or blameTo our works before he came.
We went home, delivered thence,
Grudging him no recompense
Till he portioned praise or blame
To our works before he came.
Till he showed us for our good—Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn—How we might have best withstoodBurdens that he had not borne!
Till he showed us for our good—
Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn—
How we might have best withstood
Burdens that he had not borne!