Folded Hands

Folded Hands

I stood by the Master's vineyard,
In the light of the morning sun;
I thought over the day's sweet labor,
And I he great rewards to be won;

For I longed to be up and doing
In the harvest-field so rare,
That my hands should be busy toiling, 

Plucking the clusters fair.

As I turned to enter the vineyard,
The sound of coming feet
Caused me to pause and listen,
That the comer I might greet.

And my Master stood before me,
In the golden morning light;
His smile cast a heavenly radiance
That blinded my mortal sight.

But it entered my heart, and filled it
With a love and a rapture sweet;
And I bowed in glad adoration
Before my Master's feet.

And his words, like silvery music
From the distant starry sky,
Came into my listening spirit,
An echo from strains on high.

And thus spake the Master, "Daughter,
I know thy longing heart
In the toil of my rich-laden vineyard
Is eager to bear a part.

"But from thee no active labor
The Master's cause demands;
Within thy low cottage doorway
Only sit with folded hands,

And the patient endurance of sorrow,
And a burden sore of pain,
Till I come with a welcome summons.
To bring thee eternal gain."

So he led me to my cottage,
And left me within the door;
But the brightness of his presence
Stays with me for evermore.

I see on the fair sweet uplands 

The pleasant vineyard ground;
And the echo of happy voices
Comes to me, a cheering sound.

I wait for his welcome footsteps;
Perchance they are coming to me:
I watch for his radiant smiling,
That his dear face I may see.

And this, like a sweet bird, nestless
In my heart, else desolate:
They serve me who at my word
But fold their hands-and wait." 

by Sophie Bronson Titterington