It May Not Be Our Lot

It may not be our lot to wield

The sic­kle in the rip­ened field;

Nor ours to hear

on sum­mer eves

The reap­er’s song among the sheaves.

Yet where our du­ty’s task is wrought

In uni­son with God’s great thought

The near and fu­ture blend in one

And what­so­e’er is willed

is done.

And ours the grate­ful serv­ice whence

Comes

day by day

the re­com­pense;

The hope

the trust

the pur­pose stayed

The fount­ain

and the noon­day shade.

And were this lift the ut­most span

The on­ly end and aim of man

Better the toil of fields like these

Than wak­ing dream and sloth­ful ease.

But life

though fall­ing like our grain

Like that re­vives and springs again;

And

ear­ly called

how blest are they

Who wait in Heav­en

their har­vest day!