(Sermon from last Sunday here.)
There are no famous farmers, or not many.
Most plow and plant their fields quietly.
They wait for rain, they wait for growth, with plenty
Of work that mostly goes by silently.
And harvests come and go–some bad, some good,
Some profitable, full of healthy fruit;
Some others, despite all your sweat and blood,
Are thin and dry, the crops all turned to loot
For drought and ravens. All the same,
The farmers get no glory for their toil.
They plant the seeds, and wages are their gain,
But much depends on time and sun and soil.
So let them pray, and let them watch and trust,
Despite abundance, plenty, famine, dust.