Harvest

I

See the corn again in ear!
How the fields and valleys smile!
Harvest now is drawing near,
To repay the farmer’s toil.
Gracious Lord, secure the crop,
Satisfy the poor with food:
In thy mercy is our hope;
We have sinn’d, but thou art good.

II

While I view the plenteous grain,
As it ripens on the stalk,
May I not instruction gain
Helpful to my daily walk?
All this plenty of the field
Was produced from foreign seeds:
For the earth itself would yield
Only crops of useless weeds.

III

Though when newly sown it lay
Hid awhile beneath the ground,
(Some might think it thrown away,)
Now a large increase is found;
Though conceal’d, it was not lost;
Though it died, it lives again;
Eastern storms and nipping frosts
Have opposed its growth in vain.

IV

Let the praise be all the Lord’s,
As the benefit is ours.
He in season still affords
Kindly heat and gentle showers.
By his care the produce thrives,
Waving o’er the furrow’d lands;
And when harvest-time arrives,
Ready for the reaper stands.

V

Thus in barren hearts he sows
Precious seeds of heav’nly joy;
Sin and hell in vain oppose,
None can grace’s crop destroy:
Threatened oft, yet still it blooms,
After many changes past;
Death the reaper, when he comes,
Finds it fully ripe at last.