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 wither'd, scorch'd, and dead.
3 The thorny ground is sure to baulk
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 where the Lord of grace and power
Has bless'd 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.