Harvest
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 sinned but thou art good.
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.
Though, when newly sawn, it lay
Hid awhile beneath the ground,
Some might think it thrown away
Now a large increase is found:
Though concealed, it was not lost,
Though it died, it lives again;
Eastern storms, and nipping frosts
Have opposed its growth in vain.
Let the praise be all the Lord's,
As the benefit is ours!
He, in seasons, still affords
Kindly heat, and gentle flow'rs:
By his care the produce thrives
Waving o'er the furrowed lands;
And when harvest-time arrives,
Ready for the reaper stands.
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.
poem by John Newton
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Related quotes
Psalm 65 part 3
The blessings of the spring; or, God gives rain.
A Psalm for the husbandman.
Good is the Lord, the heav'nly King,
Who makes the earth his care;
Visits the pastures ev'ry spring,
And bids the grass appear.
The clouds, like rivers raised on high,
Pour out at thy command
Their wat'ry blessings from the sky,
To cheer the thirsty land.
The softened ridges of the field
Permit the corn to spring;
The valleys rich provision yield,
And the poor lab'rers sing.
The little hills, on every side,
Rejoice at falling showers;
The meadows, dressed in all their pride,
Perfume the air with flowers.
The barren clods, refreshed with rain,
Promise a joyful crop;
The parching grounds look green again,
And raise the reaper's hope.
The various months thy goodness crowns;
How bounteous are thy ways!
The bleating flocks spread o'er the downs,
And shepherds shout thy praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Olney Hymn 16: The Sower
Ye sons of earth prepare the plough,
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 wither'd, scorch'd, and dead.
The thorny ground is sure to balk
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 power
Has bless'd 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 give me seed
Provide a fruitful place!
poem by William Cowper
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Jericho; or, The Waters Healed
Though Jericho pleasantly stood,
And looked like a promising soil;
The harvest produced little food,
To answer the husbandman's toil.
The water some property had,
Which poisonous proved to the ground;
The springs were corrupted and bad,
The streams spread a barrenness round.
But soon by the cruse and the salt,
Prepared by Elisha's command,
The water was cured of its fault,
And plenty enriched the land:
An emblem sure this of the grace
On fruitless dead sinners bestowed;
For man is in Jericho's case,
Till cured by the mercy of God.
How noble a creature he seems!
What knowledge, invention and skill!
How large and extensive his schemes!
How much can he do if he will!
His zeal to be learned and wise,
Will yield to no limits or bars;
He measures the earth and the skies,
And numbers and marshals the stars.
Yet still he is barren of good;
In vain are his talents and art;
For sin has infected his blood,
And poisoned the streams of his heart:
Though cockatrice eggs he can hatch,
Or, spider-like, cobwebs can weave;
'Tis madness to labor and watch
For what will destroy or deceive.
But grace, like the salt in the cruse,
When cast in the spring of the soul;
A wonderful change will produce,
Diffusing new life through the whole:
The wilderness blooms like a rose,
The heart which was vile and abhorred;
Now fruitful and beautiful grows,
The garden and joy of the Lord.
poem by John Newton
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The Sower
(Matthew, xiii.3)
Ye sons of earth prepare the plough,
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 wither'd, scorch'd, and dead.
The thorny ground is sure to balk
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 power
Has bless'd 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 give me seed
Provide a fruitful place!
poem by William Cowper
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The Field of the World
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thy hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broadcast it o’er the land.
Beside all waters sow;
The highway furrows stock;
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow;
Scatter it on the rock.
The good and fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there;
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found;
Go forth, then, everywhere.
Thou know’st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
God keeps His precious seed alive,
When and wherever strown.
And duly shall appear,
In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,
And the full corn at length.
Thou canst not toil in vain:
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
The angels reapers shall descend,
And heav’n cry - 'Harvest Home.'
poem by James Montgomery
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Harvest Hymn
Mens Voices:
LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest,
Bright and munificent lord of the morn!
Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing,
Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn.
We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute,
The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit;
O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.
Lord of the rainbow, lord of the harvest,
Great and beneficent lord of the main!
Thine is the mercy that cherished our furrows,
Thine is the mercy that fostered our grain.
We bring thee our thanks and our garlands for tribute,
The wealth of our valleys, new-garnered and ripe;
O sender of rain and the dewfall, we hail thee,
We praise thee, Varuna, with cymbal and pipe.
Womens Voices:
Queen of the gourd-flower, queen of the har- vest,
Sweet and omnipotent mother, O Earth!
Thine is the plentiful bosom that feeds us,
Thine is the womb where our riches have birth.
We bring thee our love and our garlands for tribute,
With gifts of thy opulent giving we come;
O source of our manifold gladness, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Prithvi, with cymbal and drum.
All Voices:
Lord of the Universe, Lord of our being,
Father eternal, ineffable Om!
Thou art the Seed and the Scythe of our harvests,
Thou art our Hands and our Heart and our Home.
We bring thee our lives and our labours for tribute,
Grant us thy succour, thy counsel, thy care.
O Life of all life and all blessing, we hail thee,
We praise thee, O Bramha, with cymbal and prayer
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Sow in the Morn Thy Seed
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thy hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broadcast it o’er the land.
Thou know’st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
God keeps His precious seed alive,
When and wherever thrown.
Thou canst not toil in vain;
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
The angels reapers shall descend,
And heav’n cry, “Harvest Home.”
poem by James Montgomery
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The Lord's Harvest of Plenty
What a truly awesome thought indeed,
That throughout your day you live among seed.
Not the seeds that one would find in the ground,
These are not seen, but in the heart they are found.
These seeds are planted by the children of God,
As they simply follow the path The Savior has trod.
Your life as a Christian is not merely good deeds,
As your faithful witness could plant one of these seeds.
Or your life may be busy with a seed you don't know,
And your faithful witness is helping that little seed grow.
Planting and watering, as a Christian, is all we afford,
While all of the growth of that seed comes from the Lord.
After a little growth it is no longer a seed,
But a new vibrant Christian prepared for a deed.
The deed that has been prepared, I'm sure that you know,
Is to plant some new seed and to help water and help grow.
Once they have grown, they are cut with God's sickle of love,
And taken by The Lord to their Father's Home up above.
Whether the numbers are few or they are many,
You can be part of The Lord's Harvest of Plenty.
(Copyright © 08/2002)
The Corn Song
HEAP HIGH the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer’s noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for His golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Harvest For The World
All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Seeds Will Be Sown
Bring in the harvest sheaves, and store
Them safely, on the barn's stone floor.
Let all who've worked to stack and bind,
On the farmhouse table, their cider, find.
They will heartily cheer the farmer's thanks,
Then get up to some quite jovial pranks,
While celebrating a long and hard day's reap,
Before falling soundly off to sleep.
The winter's grain is home and bound,
Taken with skill from the fertile ground.
And in time some new seeds will be sown,
As soon as the frost, snow and ice have flown.
The fields are left, just with rough stubble now,
Ready for furrows to be cut by the plough.
Next year these crops will grow once again,
Helped by the Lord, his sunbeams and rain.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Voices Of The Night : The Reaper And The Flowers
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
'Shall I have nought that is fair?' saith he;
'Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.'
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,'
The Reaper said, and smiled;
'Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
'They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.'
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Reaper And The Flowers
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
``Shall I have nought that is fair?'' saith he;
``Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.''
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
``My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,''
The Reaper said, and smiled;
``Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
``They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.''
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A Farmer's Value
The worker in the field plays a vital role
Without him to operate the tractors and combines
The crop will not be quickly harvested
Without workers in the field
Supply will diminish; demand will go through the roof
The human will then be carnivorous
Relying solely on the animal for food
Meanwhile, the animal eats the crop
That the worker does not harvest
I appreciate and praise the hard worker
For he is harvesting the crop I consume.
poem by Nick Leary
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A Sea Of Economic Erosion
Best fertile productive land
worth doubles more if
for housing quick profit sold.
Best agricultural land lost
rich crops lost for ever more.
Yes this was concept time
of culling cutting orchards
globally halving a harvest
less crop less work more money
for half a harvest in producers pocket.
Pure calculated gluttony greed
bugger poor starving millions
but a warning a blessing denied
God blessed land to produce
cut your yield you lazy greedy dog
watch pestilence famine hound your hog
creeping back punishment it will it will
cries of starving millions heaven repays in full
a time of tribulation curses proud pharaoh's land
an angel of dead sweeps over barren desert sand.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Seed-Time And Harvest
As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes day by day the recompense;
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed,
The fountain and the noonday shade.
And were this life the utmost span,
The only end and aim of man,
Better the toil of fields like these
Than waking dream and slothful ease.
But life, though falling like our grain,
Like that revives and springs again;
And, early called, how blest are they
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Harvests
Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe ’neath an autumn sky,
Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o’er hillside, valley or plain,
Than fruits ’mid their leafy screen.
Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition’s race,
The last in talent, power or place,
Will all find work in that field.
Man toiling, lab’ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou’lt shudder in death’s cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
At that harvest work instead!
Lady, with queenly form and brow,
Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow,
Who need only smile to win;
’Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave,
Is one whom a warning word might save
From folly, sorrow or sin.
Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright
Will glow with holier, softer light
For the good that thou hast done;
And a time will come when thou wilt reap
From that simple act more pleasure deep
Than from flatt’ring conquests won.
Young girl in thy bright youth’s blushing dawn,
Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn,
There is work for thee to do,
And higher aims than to flirt and smile,
And practise each gay, coquettish wile,
Admiring glances to woo.
Ah! the world is full of grief and care,
Sad, breaking hearts are every where,
And thou can’st give relief;
Alms to the needy—soft word of hope
That a brighter view may chance to ope
To mourners bowed by grief.
That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower
That tempt thee at the present hour,
To be worn, then cast aside,
Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring,
Fuel or food to the famishing
And help to the sorely tried.
Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare,
Worthy all toil and patient care,
Think of the promised reward!
Not earthly gains that will pass away
Like morning mist or bright sunset ray,
But Christ Himself, our Lord!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Harvest Song
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.
I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack'd fields of other harvesters.
It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.
(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats...eoho--
I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters whose throats are also dry.
It would be good to hear their songs . . reapers of the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn...even though their throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened me.
I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!)
I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled.
But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger.
I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry...
O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me knowledge of my hunger.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Those Who Sow In Tears
The rains that fall from Heaven
Fall down upon our face
And the dawn is surely coming
Yet in the darkness we embrace
Perhaps you've never seen the dawn
Yet in your heart you know its true
That beyond the edge of all you know
There is a sky that's ever blue
To plough the field of perpetual winter
For a harvest never seen before
Is to walk in darkness without stumbling
Is to open up the heavenly door
What lies beyond, no one can see
Yet through the door there is no fears
This is a place where seeds are found
They are for those who sow in tears
And with the seeds and with our tears
We'll plough the fields until the end
With weeping hearts the seeds are watered
And then the harvest God will send
Then all our tears are wiped away
Our hearts are filled with laughter
We now embrace perpetual dawn
And blue skies ever after!
poem by Frank McEleny
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In Memoriam—Rev. J. J. Lyons
ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638.
The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn
Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.
Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land;
Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn,
With the stored sweetness of all summer hours,
The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers,
And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day,
With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil,
Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil,
To Him who gives and Him who takes away.
Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord,
And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune,
And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.
Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord,
Who killeth and who quickeneth again,
Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain,
Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace.
Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West,
Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest.
With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease.
For there is mourning now in Israel,
The crown, the garland of the branching tree
Is plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he.
The priest, the good old man who wrought so well
Upon his chosen globe. For he was one
Who at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun.
Morn found him not as one who slumbereth,
Noon saw him faithful, and the restful night
Stole o'er him at his labors to requite
The just man's service with the just man's death.
What shall be said when such as he do pass?
Go to the hill-side, neath the cypress-trees,
Fall midst that peopled silence on your knees,
And weep that man must wither as the grass.
But mourn him not, whose blameless life complete
Rounded its perfect orb, whose sleep is sweet,
Whom we must follow, but may not recall.
Salute with solemn trumpets the New Year,
And offer honeyed fruits as were he here,
Though ye be sick with wormwood and with gall.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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