R3899-375 Poem: He Thresheth His Wheat

::R3899 : page 375::


When the Wheat is carried home
And the threshing time is come,
Close the door.
When the flail is lifted high,
Like the chaff I would not fly;
At His feet oh let me lie
On the floor.

All the cares that o’er me steal,
All the sorrows that I feel
Like a dart,
When my enemies prevail,
When my strength begins to fail—
‘Tis the beating of the flail
On my heart.

It becomes me to be still,
Tho’ I cannot all His will
I would be the purest wheat,
Lying humbly at His feet,
Kissing oft the rod that beat,
In His hand.

By and by I shall be stored
In the garner of the Lord
Like a prize;
Thanking Him for every blow
That in sorrow laid me low,
But in beating made me grow
For the skies.


— December 1, 1906 —