[Written for the Sentinel.]


The workers in His vineyard—blessed band!
Their lamps are ever trimmed, and brightly glow,
Shedding the light of Truth o'er every land;
Illuming all the paths where mortals go.

They find the sinner on the lonely road
That weary, wandering feet have ever trod,—
They gently help him cast aside his load,
And place him in the way that leads to God.

Beneath their hand the stony ground awakes
And yields a harvest bountiful and sweet.
The withered stalk breaks into bloom, then shakes
Its fragrance, as a tribute, at their feet.

Their hand it is that soothes the brow of pain,
Their voice that stills the troubled thoughts within;
They tell of God as Love, of life as gain;
The nothingness of sorrow, sickness, sin.

They lift the thought above its sordid dreams
Of life in matter, and they teach it how to rise
On strongest wings of faith where softly gleams
The morning star of hope through clouded skies.

And thus they shed a light where'er they go
That, striking through the mists of misspent years,
Reveals a radiant realm on earth below,
Wherein our God has wiped away all tears.

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