Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825–1906)

THE MEADOW grass is green and blithe,

With gold and purple hues besprent;

It recks not of to-morrow’s scythe,

Rich in its lavish bloom and scent;

The sun is warm, the evening gay,

Who speaks of aught but life to-day?

The jocund world is borne along

By troops of rosy-figur’d hours,

Its path of merriment and song

Still garlanded with new-cut flowers;

And all her children seem to say,

To-morrow will be as to-day.

But standing from the throng apart

There are who drink of sorrow’s springs,

And answer to their bleeding heart

That heart’s persistent questionings,

“Is there no harvest far away

Of seed we sow in tears to-day?”

Listen, the world’s melodious chime

Grows faint and fainter year by year,

And things to come are shadowing time,

And soon the Master will be here:

God grant us crown’d by Him to say,

Eternity is ours to-day.