At the eleventh hour he came,But his wages were the sameAs ours who all day long had trodThe wine-press of the Wrath of God.
When he shouldered through the linesOf our cropped and mangled vines,His unjaded eye could scanHow each hour had marked its man.
(Children of the morning-tideWith the hosts of noon had died,And our noon contingents layDead with twilight’s spent array.)
Since his back had felt no load ,Virtue still in him abode;So he swiftly made his ownThose last spoils we had not won.
We went home, delivered thence,Grudging him no recompenseTill he portioned praise or blameTo our works before he came.
Till he showed us for our good–Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn–How we might have best withstoodBurdens that he had not born!
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