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