Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/285

Rh But he whose only gold Is in the conscience stor'd Is richer at the hour of death Than with the miser's hoard.

When the short day of life With all its work is done, The faithful servant of the cross Doth hail the setting sun, But they who waste their breath, Dread the accusing tomb, And the time-killer flies from death As from a murderer's doom.

So give us, Lord, to find When earth shall pass away, That Sabbath-evening of the mind Which crowns a well-spent day, That entering to thy rest, Where toils and cares are o'er, We, with the myriads of the blest, May praise Thee, evermore.