The Vineyard

 1  
At the eleventh hour he came,
But his wages were the same
As ours who all day long had trod 
The wine-press of the Wrath of God.
2 
When he shouldered through the lines 
Of our cropped and mangled vines,
His unjaded eye could scan 
How each hour had marked its man.
3 
(Children of the morning-tide 
With the hosts of noon had died,
And our noon contingents lay 
Dead with twilight's spent array.)
4 
Since his back had felt no load, 
Virtue still in him abode
So he swiftly made his own 
Those last spoils we had not won.
5 
We went home delivered thence,
Grudging him no recompense 
Till he portioned praise of blame 
To our works before he came.
6 
Till he showed us for our good–
Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn–
How we might have best withstood
Burdens that he had not borne! 

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