August 14

There shall come in the last days scoffers saying, Where is the promise of His coming?

O GREAT MASTER, are Thy footsteps Even now upon the mountains?

Art Thou walking in Thy wheat-field?

Are the snowy-winged reapers

Gathering in the silent air?

Are thy signs abroad, the glowing

Of the distant sky, blood-reddened—

And the near fields trodden, blighted,

Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,—

Sure, it must be harvest time?

Who shall know the Master's coming?

Whether it be at dawn or sunset,

When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,

Or while noon rides high in heaven,

Sleeping lies the yellow field?

Only, may Thy voice, Good Master,

Peal above the reapers' chorus,

And dull sound of sheaves slow falling—

"Gather all into My garner,

For it is My Harvest Time."

DINAH

MULOCK

OUR SUFFERING GOD