Our father once ploughed the fields with horses and scattered seeds with his open hand. He prayed the Lord to bless his harvest and keep His watch upon the land. He worked so hard yet never tired and dreamed of golden harvest days ahead. Through burning sun and heavy showers he waited calm his heart was fed. But we, the young ones plough with engines and scatter seed by the machine. The reverence’s gone within our labor but what of that – it’s quick and clean. The pace that drives this world so ruthless won’t pass the farmer’s doorstep by. He too must hurry, run and follow, and in that chase some treasures die. And up above our Lord is watching and sadly shakes His holy head: For man, against his finest spirit, has robbed himself of what makes life divine.
