Nothing but Leaves.
The time of the harvest was ended,
And the summer of life was gone,
When in from the fields came the reapers,
Called home by the dip of the sun;
I saw them each bearing a burden
Of toilsomely in-gathered sheaves;
They brought them in love to the Master,
But I could bring nothing but leaves.
The years that He gave I had wasted,
Nor thought I how soon they would fly,
While others toiled hard for the harvest
I carelessly let them slip by;
I idled about without purpose,
Nor cared I, but now how it grieves;
While others brought fruit to their Master,
I found I had nothing but leaves.
Then soon from my dream I was wakened,
And sad was my heart, for I knew
That though my life’s day was not over,
Ere long I should bid it adieu.
I started in shame and in sorrow,
I turned from the sin that deceives;
Henceforth I must toil for the Saviour,
Or maybe bring nothing but leaves.
I could bring nothing but leaves,
I could bring nothing but leaves,
While others came in
With their bright golden sheaves,
I could bring nothing,
Nothing, nothing but leaves,