Poems (Hoffman)/The Harvest

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman

THE HARVEST

("The harvest is the end of the world; and the
reapers are the angels."—Matt. 13:39.)

Fallen upon the great field of the world,
Sown in corruption, germs that cannot die;
Perished in Africa's dark wilderness,
Lost in Alaska's frozen snows to lie
Forgotten germs of immortality.
Thus to be out of sight and being, hurled,
Buried as Moses was in tombs unknown,
Save to the pitying angels who stand by,
Guards of the dust, 'till from the o'er-arching sky
Shall sound the voice of God,
The great, "Come forth!"

Then from the North
From frozen sepulchers,
And from the South
From arid deserts, lo, the dearth and drought
Of land and ocean unto God shall yield,
Tares and bright grain from earth's great harvest-field.

From sun to sun
To curse the beautiful, the good to spoil,
Walketh the evil one.
Sound forth your glad evangels,
Ye who toil,
That golden sheaves may from the hallowed soil
Be gathered home.

Soon come the reaper angels,
And a voice like many waters, mighty thunderings
Shall sound from heaven, 'till earth awakened rings,
And all the hills rejoice
With alleluias and thank-offerings
Of praise, and in her valleys
Is heard the sound of morning angels' wings;
Earth clouds dissolve, and earthly glory waneth,
And the Lord God, the King immortal reigneth.