Wilt Thou Harass A Driven Leaf?

O harass not a driven leaf,     Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue;     A life so brief load not with grief,     Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.     The fragile leaf, by tempest tost,     Is scarcely worth a passing thought;     The brook is crossed, and then is lost;     There let it lie, a thing of naught.     The stubble dry ne'er grows again;     To golden grain it gave its sap.     It died, and then 'twas left by men     To rot betimes, or some mishap.     Am I not like the stubble dry     And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?     Must I not die, then tell me why     A thing so frail is thus pursued?     A voice replies: "Thy life is frail,     Much like the leaf and stubble dry;     Thy strength must fail, and as the gale     Bears them away, so must thou die;     "But live again, in bliss, or pain;     For death to man does not end all;     Life is not vain, if thou but gain     A home in heaven, when I shall call!     "To fit thy soul for endless rest,     I harass now the driven leaf,     But though sore pressed and grief distressed,     The life of sorrow will be brief.     "And when released from suffering clay,     Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise     To endless day. Then thou shalt say,     The ways of God are good and wise."