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The Harvest of Sin

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, Cal., Kansas City, and New York · Nov 29, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, Nos. 48, 49.

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The Harvest of Sin

By C. M. Snow

SIN'S HARVEST The shades of sin are length'ning Over the dark'ning land; The sun of the day is setting. The silently slipping sand Runs lower each passing moment, Sinks swifter in the glass— We're viewing the last of the harvest As the ominous moments pass. The sun of the day is setting, and silently, swiftly, soon, They reap the last of the harvest by the lingering harvest moon. There'll be no other sowing, no other planting year; The old earth nears her Sabbath, the harvest of God is here. Six thousand years of sowing, six thousand years of sin, Six thousand years of sorrow, bring all their reapings in. The books of God are closing their record of the years— For some a home in glory, for others bitter tears.
SIN'S HARVEST The shades of sin are length'ning Over the dark'ning land; The sun of the day is setting. The silently slipping sand Runs lower each passing moment, Sinks swifter in the glass— We're viewing the last of the harvest As the ominous moments pass. The sun of the day is setting, and silently, swiftly, soon, They reap the last of the harvest by the lingering harvest moon. There'll be no other sowing, no other planting year; The old earth nears her Sabbath, the harvest of God is here. Six thousand years of sowing, six thousand years of sin, Six thousand years of sorrow, bring all their reapings in. The books of God are closing their record of the years— For some a home in glory, for others bitter tears.
The cruel hate we've harbored, The cruel deeds we've done, Have borne a mighty harvest— A hundred fold from one. For every act of hatred, For every hidden wrong, The sickle of Jehovah Is reaping down a throng.
The sullen seed of anger That seamed a brother's brow Has yielded sheaves of murder From Adam until now; And all the land is taken With tare and tumble-weed, Whose seeds are thickly falling From hearts engrossed in greed.
The pampered child of pleasure (wherever rest the blame) Finds now a horrid harvest behind the doors of shame. The painted, gilded sepulchers, with curtains wove in gold, Each day are closing thousands within their hopeless fold. A thousand weeping mothers each day increase the throng That bosom bore a heart-thrust to rankle for the wrong Of one that bosom nourished, of one that heart adored, Now sinking in that current no human foot can ford.
The burning flood of evil That simmers in the still, Or bubbles in the brewing vat To work a devil's will, Has here a hateful harvest In sheaves of ruined souls, Who bartered home and heaven To pay their tippling tolls.
The harvest of the heedless, Who slumbered in their sin— While Christ was waiting, knocking, And would not bid Him in— Is piled in myriad bundles Upon the waiting plain, No longer gaily waving Among God's chosen grain.
And strife and wo and hunger the harvest hours press, With ragged waifs for children, the fruits of selfishness. Adown the darkening landscape the bending reapers swing— It is the last great harvest, the harvest of the King. God's golden grain is garnered from all this mingled mass— What are the angels reaping to my name as they pass? Is mine that glorious harvest of God-appointed deeds, Or will it sin-bound bundles be to burn among the weeds?
C. M. Snow.