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.