Author: William J. Henry, pub.

Nothing but leaves I’ve gathered,
Yes, nothing but worthless leaves,
When from the field of labor
Others bring golden sheaves;
Then in the day of judgment
Shall I be found with tares,
When God rewards the faithful
With crowns of shining stars.

Gathering nothing but leaves,
Gathering nothing but leaves;
Spending life’s precious moments
Gathering nothing but leaves.

Nothing but leaves I’ve gathered,
So sad, but, alas, ’tis true,
What I have done I never,
Nevermore can undo;
Past is the harvest season,
The summer has come and gone,
Reaping for future burning
The thorns and briars I’ve sown.

Nothing but leaves I’ve gathered,
Dear sinner, oh, hear the cry;
Swiftly your days are passing,
Soon you’ll be called to die;
What are the seeds you’re sowing?
What will you reap at last?
Sometime you’ll surely gather
Sheaves from the seeds you’ve cast.

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