Poems (Hoffman)/The Harvest

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THE HARVEST
("The harvest is the end of the world; and thereapers are the angels."—Matt. 13:39.)
Fallen upon the great field of the world,Sown in corruption, germs that cannot die;Perished in Africa's dark wilderness,Lost in Alaska's frozen snows to lieForgotten germs of immortality.Thus to be out of sight and being, hurled,Buried as Moses was in tombs unknown,Save to the pitying angels who stand by,Guards of the dust, 'till from the o'er-arching skyShall sound the voice of God,The great, "Come forth!"
Then from the NorthFrom frozen sepulchers,And from the SouthFrom arid deserts, lo, the dearth and droughtOf land and ocean unto God shall yield,Tares and bright grain from earth's great harvest-field.
From sun to sunTo curse the beautiful, the good to spoil,Walketh the evil one.Sound forth your glad evangels,Ye who toil,That golden sheaves may from the hallowed soilBe gathered home.
Soon come the reaper angels,And a voice like many waters, mighty thunderingsShall sound from heaven, 'till earth awakened rings, ​And all the hills rejoiceWith alleluias and thank-offeringsOf praise, and in her valleysIs heard the sound of morning angels' wings;Earth clouds dissolve, and earthly glory waneth,And the Lord God, the King immortal reigneth.

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