With grandeur could adorn each tomb,
For Him who came with love and life,
They had no home, they gave no room.


GO WORK IN MY VINEYARD. 31

The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy
Through nerves unstrung and palsied
frame,
The feet that travelled for our need,
Were nailed unto the cross of shame.

How dare I murmur at my lot,
Or talk of sorrow, pain and loss,
When Christ was in a manger laid,
And died in anguish on the cross.

That homeless one beheld beyond
His lonely agonizing pain,
A love outflowing from His heart,
That all the wandering world would gain.



GO WORK IN MY VINEYARD.

Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord,
And gather the bruised grain;
But the reapers had left the stubble bare,