O ye weeping sons and daughters,
Trust the Heavenly Harvest Giver,
Cast your bread upon the waters
Of His overflowing river;
Cast the good seed, nothing doubting
That your tears shall turn to praise,
Ye shall yet behold it sprouting
Heavenward, after many days.
Hope and love, long frost-withholden,
Into laughing life upleaping,
Blade and ear, from green to golden,
Yet shall ripen for your reaping;
Till some radiant summer morrow,
Wheresoe'er your sickle cleaves,
Ye, who sow to-day in sorrow,
Shout for joy amid your sheaves.
O then, learn the inmost meaning
Of your harvest's rich redundance,
Bid the famished ones come gleaning
In the fields of your abundance;
So in overrunning measure
Shall your thankful fellow-men
Give you, of their hearts' hid treasure,
All your good gifts back again.
Till, ye faithful sons and daughters,
God your golden lives deliver,
Like the good grain to the waters
Of death's overflowing river;
Till up-caught amid His sleepers,
Heavenly fruit from earthly loam,
At the last, His angel reapers
On their bosoms bear you home.