Long, O Master, in Thy vineyard
Thro’ the dust and heat of day,
I have toiled, and with my burden,
Come I now thro’ shadows gray.
Toiling in Thy vineyard
All day long with weary feet,
Glad to rest when evening cometh,
And the hours are cool and sweet.
Tangled vines and faded flowers
Hidden lie among my sheaves,
Look’st Thou sorrowful, O Master?
Is there nothing there but leaves?
Purge, Thou, then, the sheaves so worthless,
That I lay at Thy dear feet,
So they yield Thee at the harvest
Only finest of the wheat.