Classic Poem

The God of glory walks his round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,
" No longer stand ye idle here!

" Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright,
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear,
Waste not of hope, the morning light!
Ah, fools! why stand ye idle here?

" Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage
That wait on life's declining year,
Secure a blessing for your age,
And work your Maker's business here!

" And ye, whose locks of scanty gray
Foretell your latest travail near,
How swiftly fades your worthless day!
And stand ye yet so idle here?

" One hour remains, there is but one!
But many a shriek and many a tear
Through endless years the guilt must moan
Of moments lost and wasted here! "

Oh Thou, by all thy works adored,
To whom the sinner's soul is dear,
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord!
And grant us grace to please thee here!