The time for toil is past, and night has come,
The last and sad­dest of the har­vest eves;
Worn out with la­bor long and wea­ri­some,
Drooping and faint, the reap­ers hast­en home,
Each la­den with his sheaves,
Each la­den with his sheaves.

Last of the la­bor­ers, Thy feet I gain,
Lord of the Har­vest! and my Spir­it grieves
That I am bur­dened not so much with grain,
As with a hea­vi­ness of heart and brain;
Master, be­hold my sheaves!
Master, be­hold my sheaves!

Few, light, and worth­less—yet their trif­ling weight
Through all my frame a wea­ry ach­ing leaves;
For long I strug­gled with my hap­less fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,
Yet these are all my sheaves,
Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flow­ers, dry stalks, and wi­thered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at Thy feet
I kneel down re­ver­ent­ly, and re­peat
Master, be­hold my sheaves,
Master, be­hold my sheaves!

I know these blos­soms, clus­ter­ing hea­vi­ly
With ev­en­ing dew up­on their fold­ed leaves,
Can claim no val­ue nor uti­li­ty;
Therefore shall frag­ran­cy and beau­ty be
The glo­ry of my sheaves,
The glo­ry of my sheaves.

So do I ga­ther strength and hope anew;
For well I know Thy pa­tient love per­ceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do;
And, though the full, ripe ears be sad­ly few,
Thou will ac­cept my sheaves,
Thou will ac­cept my sheaves.