Nothing To Do Poem by James Ephraim McGirt
Nothing To Do
The fields are white;
The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle:
There's nothing to do.
Jails are crowded;
In Sunday-schools few;
We still complain:
There's nothing to do.
Drunkards are dying—
Your sons, it is true;
Mothers' arms folded
With nothing to do.
Heathen are dying;
Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
Find nothing to do?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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4/29/2024 5:02:55 AM # 1.0.0.1119
