1 Abundance of good folk, I find,
Are gathering goodness for the wind
To scatter it about;
They seek, with human care and skill,
Their vessels with good wine to fill,
But all the wine leaks out.

2 [A fretful soul his fault may spy,
And struggle much, and often try
Some patience to obtain;
Yet after many toilsome years,
And many sighs and many tears,
He has not got a grain.]

3 He that with Jesus gathers not,
May plough and sow, and weed his plot,
But scatters all his corn;
No real goodness long can stand,
Which planted is by human hand;
It dies as soon as born.

4 [They reap and scatter all the while;
They reap and gather nought but toil;
’Tis labour lost, I see.
O Lord, do thou instruct my heart
With my own reaping-hook to part,
And gather all with thee.]

5 In Christ my treasure gathered is;
My wisdom, wealth, and might are his,
My peace at his command;
With him is free and plenteous store,
And faith may have enough and more,
When gathered from his hand.