Lenten sonnet #1

The field, long lain fallow through the cold
And bitter winters, shot all through with weeds
And packed-down places, newly has been sold
To better farmers, better hands to bleed
With labor’s loving wounds, the nights and days
Of pulling weeds and compost and manure,
Of plowing, sowing–all the work to raise
A crop, to make the later harvest sure.
The workers work, all knowing that although
They plant the seeds and pull the heavy stones
Away, they cannot make the fields grow;
They cannot give it life. But still, with silent groans
Of waiting, expectation, pain, and joy,
They ask the Lord His mercies to deploy.

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Lenten sonnet #1

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