Where hast been toiling all day, sweet-heart,
That thy brow is burdened and sad?
The Master's work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.
Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost,
Or scorched with the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?
"No pleasant garden-toils were mine!—
I have sat on the judgment-seat,
Where the Master sits at eve and calls
The children around His feet."
