But I’ll work on with pleasure, while keeping my eyes

I am often surprised why the lip should be curled,

When I speak of my Lord to the man of the world,

And notice with sorrow his look of disdain,

When I tell him that Jesus is coming again.

He seems so content with his houses and gold,

While despising the ark, like the people of old;

And yet at His coming I’m sure he would flee,

Like the man in the garden, who ate of the tree.

I cannot but think it is foolish of souls

To put all their money ‘in bags which have holes’,

To find in the day that is coming apace,

How lightly they valued the ‘riches of grace’.

And fond as I am of His work in the field,

I would leave go the plough, I would lay down the shield—

The weapons of service I would put on the shelf,

And the sword in its scabbard, to be with Himself.

On the end of the field where standeth the prize,

I would work for His glory, that when we shall meet,

I may have a large sheaf to lay down at His feet.

That He, too, with pleasure His fruit may review—

Is the Man in the glory a stranger to you?

A stranger to Jesus! What, do you not know,

He is washing poor sinners much whiter than snow?