William Cowper (1731–1800)

Ye sons of earth prepare the plough,

        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 wither’d, scorch’d, 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 high-way 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 bless’d 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 give me seed,

        Provide a fruitful place.