If a man could do his reaping alone, it would not be so hard; but it is terrible when he has to make that godly father, and that mother who loves him, or that wife and family, reap along with him. Does not the drunkard make his wife and children reap a bitter harvest? Does not the gambler make his relatives reap? Does not the harlot make her parents reap agony and shame? What a bitter enemy is sin! May God help each one of us to turn from it at once!
Whenever I hear a young man talking in a flippant way about sowing his wild oats, I don't laugh. I feel more like crying, because I know he is going to make his gray-haired mother reap in tears; he is going to make his wife reap in shame; he is going to make his old father and his innocent children reap with him. Only ten or fifteen or twenty years will pass before he will have to reap his wild oats; no man has ever sowed them without having to reap them. Sow the wind and you reap the whirlwind.
We cannot control our influence. If I plant thistles in my field, the wind will take the thistle-down when it is ready, and blow it away beyond the fence; and my neighbors will have to reap with me. So my example may be copied by my children or my neighbors, and my actions reproduced indefinitely through them, whether for good or evil. How many have gone to ruin because of the sins of such men as Jacob and David and Lot!
Nothing But Leaves.
Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grieves O'er years of wasted life! O'er sins indulged while conscience slept, O'er vows and promises unkept, And reap from years of strife-- Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves! No gathered sheaves Of life's fair ripening grain; We sow our seeds; lo! tares and weeds-- Words, _idle_ words, for earnest deeds-- Then reap, with toil and pain, Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves! Sad memory weaves No veil to hide the past; And as we trace our weary way, And count each lost and misspent day, We sadly find at last-- Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!
Ah, who shall thus the Master meet, And bring but withered leaves? Ah, who shall, at the Saviour's feet, Before the awful judgment-seat, Lay down, for golden sheaves, Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves?
--L. E. Ackerman.