The Sluggard

I

The wishes that the sluggard frames,
Of course must fruitless prove;
With folded arms he stands and dreams,
But has no heart to move.

II

His field from others may be known,
The fence is broken through,
The ground with weeds is overgrown,
And no good crop in view.

III

No hardship he or toil can bear,
No difficulty meet;
He wastes his hours at home, for fear
Of lions in the street.

IV

What wonder then, if sloth and sleep
Distress and famine bring.
Can he in harvest hope to reap,
Who will not sow in spring?

V

’Tis often thus in soul concerns
We gospel sluggards see;
Who, if a wish would serve their turns,
Might true believers be.

VI

But when the preacher bids them watch,
And seek and strive and pray,
At every poor excuse they catch⁠—
A lion in the way.

VII

To use the means of grace how loath!
We call them still in vain;
They yield to their beloved sloth,
And fold their arms again.

VIII

Dear Saviour, let thy pow’r appear,
The outward call to aid.
These drowsy souls can only hear
The voice that wakes the dead.