(Matthew, xiii.3) <br /> <br />Ye sons of earth prepare the plough, <br />Break up your fallow ground; <br />The sower is gone forth to sow, <br />And scatter blessings round. <br /> <br />The seed that finds a stony soil <br />Shoots forth a hasty blade; <br />But ill repays the sower's toil, <br />Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead. <br /> <br />The thorny ground is sure to balk <br />All hopes of harvest there; <br />We find a tall and sickly stalk, <br />But not the fruitful ear. <br /> <br />The beaten path and highway side, <br />Receive the trust in vain; <br />The watchful birds the spoil divide, <br />And pick up all the grain. <br /> <br />But where the Lord of grace and power <br />Has bless'd the happy field, <br />How plenteous is the golden store <br />The deep-wrought furrows yield! <br /> <br />Father of mercies, we have need <br />Of thy preparing grace; <br />Let the same Hand that give me seed <br />Provide a fruitful place!<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sower/
