Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise.

Thee, to some lone mountain sending,
Only with the wood supplied;
He, thy God, thy worship tending,
Will Himself a lamb provide.

Has He made it vain thy toiling
Fine-spun raiment to prepare?
'Twas to give--thy labors spoiling--
Better robes than monarchs wear.

From thy barn and storehouse treasure
Did He take thy hoarded pelf?
Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure,
Like the winged fowls--_Himself_.

* * * * *

"WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR
THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?"


Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings,
And plough in hope of harvests yet to come,
Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings,
And sing the happy song of harvest-home?

Must we forever the rough stones be heaping,
And building temple walls for evermore?