Classic Poem

All hail! ye servants of the Lord!
On mercy's mission bound;
Who, like the sower of the word,
Strew precious gifts around.

What though your seed 'mid thorns besown,
Where tares and brambles thrive,
Still One is able, One is able, One alone,
To save its germ alive.

Ye fear, what falls on stony earth
Will mock your pray'rful toil;
But sometimes plants of holiest birth
Bear fruit in sterile soil.

The seed that by the way-side fell,
Perchance you counted dead;
Yet birds, that sing in heav'n may tell,
They on its sweetness fed.

And some a hundred fold shall bear,
To glorify the Lord;
How blessed, then, will be your care!
How glorious your reward!