The Spirit grieves
Over a wasted life,—
Sins committed while conscience slept,
Promises made but never kept,
Hatred, anger, and strife,—
Nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves!
No garnered sheaves
Of Life's fair, ripened grain:
We sow our seeds! Lo, tares and weeds
We reap, in toil and pain,—
Nothing but leaves.
And shall we greet the Master so,
Bearing our withered leaves?
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,
We stand before him humbled, mute,
Waiting the words he breathes,—
"Nothing but leaves!"
