The harvest is ripe, the workers in the vineyard few

The harvest is ripe, the workers in the vineyard few. The shadows lengthen, and the sun moves ever closer toward the western hills. Oh, help me, gracious One, to learn, now before the evening comes, that, through the Christ, I can cast away the clinging garments of slothfulness, and blindness, and besetting sin, and go forth joyously as one at break of day, to greet the rising of the faithful sun; and work, work with Thy dear ones in the vineyard, helping to purge and prune, yea, meeting most compassionately, too, the needs and longings of my brother man.

O God, to be of use in Thy vast kingdom, even as one who but keeps the temple door ajar—hear this desire of a prayerful and a grateful heart. Dear Father-Mother God, make clear the way!—Buena V. Freemann.

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