C.M.
1
Ye sons of earth, prepare the plough,
Break up your fallow ground;
The sower is gone forth to sow,
And scatter blessings round.
2
The seed that finds a stony soil
Shoots forth a hasty blade;
But ill repays the sower’s toil,
Soon withered, scorched, and dead.
3
The thorny ground is sure to balk
All hopes of harvest there;
We find a tall and sickly stalk,
But not the fruitful ear.
4
The beaten path and highway side
Receive the trust in vain;
The watchful birds the spoil divide,
And pick up all the grain.
5
But when the Lord of grace and power
Has blessed the happy field,
How plenteous is the golden store
The deep-wrought furrows yield!
6
Father of mercies! we have need
Of Thy preparing grace:
Let the same hand, that gives the seed,
Provide a fruitful place!
