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 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 pow’r
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 gives the seed
Provide a fruitful place.

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