The road, up the hill, came to a “T”
And I stopped at the red sign.
After judging it was all clear for me
I drove to my side of the line.
Straight ahead, the focus of my stare
Until the view on the horizon
Centered my thoughts on a fair pair
Of plots highlighted by the sun.
The left field was colored by light, green
Leaves marking the seeded wheat
Amidst the rich brown of dirt were seen
Mechanically planted ever so neat.
The right field was shaded gray by lean
Stones to mark where they lay
Amidst the dark green of grass were seen
Arranged in a thoughtful way.
I thought of The Farmer who toils
To scatter the sacred seed
Over all the four types of soils.
Many hungry souls to feed!
Ignorant guessing, from this distance,
Which lies beneath each shoot.
But The Farmer knows, in advance,
His soil favors the deepest root.
White for harvest and ready to reap
(A long, long season is best),
He gathers the kernels into a heap
And disperses all the rest.
The Farmer so loves the field He made
With the product of the seasons.
The goodness of His name is displayed
And the wonder of Him deepens.
