Ye sons of earth prepare the plough,
…Break up your fallow ground!
The Sower is gone forth to sow,
…And scatter blessings round.
The seed that finds a stony soil,
…Shoots forth a hasty blade;
But ill repays the sower’s toil,
…Soon withered, scorched, and dead.
The thorny ground is sure to balk
…All hopes of harvest there;
We find a tall and sickly stalk,
…But not the fruitful ear.
The beaten path and high-way side
…Receive the trust in vain;
The watchful birds the spoil divide,
…And pick up all the grain.
But where the Lord of grace and power
…Has blessed the happy field;
How plenteous is the golden store
…The deep-wrought furrows yield!
Father of mercies we have need
…Of thy preparing grace;
Let the same hand that gives the seed,
…Provide a fruitful place.
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(see Matthew 13)
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