Pray what condition child of God,
Is earth within your soul?
A soft and fertile furrow deep,
Or dry and rocky hole?
The charge for all is bear much fruit,
A harvest for the Lord.
To feed the starving little ones,
A dying helpless hoard.
But how can grain begin to grow,
When trampled underfoot,
Along the path of sin you chose,
The easy way you took?
The birds sweep down and take away
The precious tiny seed,
And leave the soul now in a state
Of graven want and need.
The rocks provide a little soil.
The seed it quickly grows,
But heat of trial comes and then,
Destroys what master sows.
Among the thorns a seed takes root,
And flourishes a while.
With daily cares of hungry flesh,
It’s lost amid the mire.
Eventually the thorn wins out,
And chokes the tender grain.
The quest for happiness in things,
Brings nothing more than pain.
Where can the sower find the ground,
So fertile, soft, and sweet,
Where seed from heaven scattered round,
Is rooted firm and deep?
Are you the one amid the crowd
To show how much you care,
To hear the word of God come down
And fertile ground prepare?
If only you would labor so,
And be the one so bold,
The Lord would bless your labor, and
Return a hundredfold.