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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