LIFE is a conscious field,

Upon whose soil

The years bring ample yield

For human toil.

We are the workers there,

And hour by hour,

We scatter everywhere

A deathless power.

Each thought and word and deed

Is what we sow,

And every little seed

Shall spring and grow.

Oh! May our Father grant

His loving care,

To train each tender plant

Divinely fair.

And life shall not be vain,

If, in that day,

Our sheaves be golden grain,

And He shall say,

"Well done!" for his dear sake

Ye labored on;

And now he bids you take

The robe and crown.

C. A. Beckwith.