Ye Sons of Earth, Prepare the Plough

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 wi­thered

scorched

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 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 me seed

Provide a fruit­ful place!