What time life's early morning

Is purpling in thy sky,

And on thy brow lies glistening

With glory from on high

The font's fresh dew, Thy Lord doth say,

"Go! In my Vineyard work to-day."

At the third hour, when gorgeous

The sun of youth doth rise,

And life's entrancing glamour

Allures thy wondering eyes,

Remember! Still He calleth thee

To tend His Vineyard faithfully.

At noon when all-reluctant

The hard-pressed toilers work,

Hark! Still that Voice is calling;

One task thou dar'st not shirk—

To make that vine-row wondrous fair,

Which He hath trusted to thy care.

At the last hour He calleth,

When westering sinks life's sun,

And sable twilight falleth

E'er half the task be done:

While the last fading day-beams shine

Toil on! toil on in strength divine.

At night the Lord His workmen

Himself doth homeward lead:

Each wins the self-same wages,

Eternal life the meed.

God! 'Tis Thy gift, not our reward!

All merit flows from Christ the Lord!