Verse 1
Tremble thou careless minister,
Who standest all day long
Idle in Jesus’ vineyard here,
Yet think’st thou dost no wrong,
Content in indolence to live,
As for thy pastime born,
Thou dost from Christ the pound receive,
And make him no return.
Verse 2
Not to improve them, is to lose
The talents of thy God,
The gifts which for his church’s use
He hath on Thee bestow’d:
Not to do good is to do ill;
Thy sacred ministry
Not to discharge, not to fulfil,
Is wickedness in thee.
Verse 3
Rest is in labourers a crime,
Before their work is done:
Thy power, authority, and time,
And life are not thy own:
Prepare a strict account to give,
When Jesus bows the sky;
And now his zealous servant live,
Or then—forever die.