Are you sowing to the flesh, O youth?
Are you sowing to the flesh, O maid?
Can you think of the harvest unafraid?
Is this world your only treasure?
This life all your joy and pleasure?
Are you laying up no portion
In the sky?
He that soweth to the wind
Shall a whirlwind's harvest find,
And he'll see himself a pauper
By and by.
We must reap of what we sow, it is said:
Are you sowing to the flesh, O maid?
ELIZABETH ROSSER.
"THE MAN THAT DIED FOR ME"
For many years I wanted to go as a foreign missionary, but my way seemed
hedged about. At last I went to live in California. Life was rough in the
mining country where I lived, with my husband and little boys.
While there I heard of a man who lived over the hills and was dying of
consumption. The men said: "He is so vile that no one can stay with him; so
we place some food near him, and leave him for twenty-four hours. We will
find him dead sometime, and the sooner the better. Never had a relative, I
guess."
This pitiful story haunted me as I went about my work. For three days I
tried to get some one to go to see him and find out if he was in need of
better care.
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