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Poem	Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary, And tired out with working long and well, And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary, And heart and soul are all too sick to tell, These words have come to me like angel fingers Pressing the spirit's eyelids down in sleep, 'Oh let us not be weary in well doing, For in due season we shall surely reap.' Oh, blessed promise! When I seem to hear it, Whispered by angel voices on the air, It breathes new life and courage to my spirit, And gives me strength to suffer and forbear. And I can wait most patiently for harvest, And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep, If I know surely that my work availeth, And in God's season, I at last shall reap. When mind and body were borne down completely, And I have thought my efforts were all in vain, These words have come to me so softly, sweetly, And whispered hope, and urged me on again. And though my labour seems all unavailing, And all my striving fruitless, yet the Lord Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter, And sometime, sometime, I shall reap the reward.
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