The dark brown mould’s upturned,
By the sharp-pointed plow;
And I’ve a lesson learned.
My life is but a field,
Stretched out beneath God’s sky,
Some harvest rich to yield.
Where grows the golden grain?
Where faith? Where sympathy?
In a furrow cut by pain.
by Maltbie D. Babcock
Signe said,
February 17, 2008 @ 7:30 pm
How profound!!!