Can't let Harvest season go by completely
Without a few thoughts here
Though I can't seem to put pen to paper much just now
To do more hymn-poems
Hymn - We plough the fields and scatter
Yet - remember this....
'Plough those fields' first
Then 'scatter the good seed on the land'
Don't scatter first, then plough
Or you'll churn up all the seeds. Doh!
Hymn: To thee O Lord, our hearts we raise
Hope your crop is as those golden sheaves
Where the valleys are so full of corn
That they appear as if 'even they are singing'
"It'll be better for ears of corn to sing
Than for me to sing," you reply?!
Hymn - Come, ye thankful people, come
So come, be thankful to the Lord
We haven't got anything
Apart from what He gives us
Which is all things
'All the world is God's own field
Fruit unto His praise to yield'
A physical harvest of crops
A spiritual harvest of souls
A festival to celebrate
I may do a hymn-poem or two yet
Harvest season seems to run any time
Throughout September and October
Meanwhile, here's one the harvest hymns....
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Author:
orchidee (
Offline) - Published: October 12th, 2024 02:53
- Comment from author about the poem: Some Harvest thoughts.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments5
Good to hear you again Orchi. Nicely done.
Thanks SB.
Harvest and harvest time brings so many pastoral memories to which this spiritual harvest comes alive in the heart and mind. Thanks for sharing!
Thanks A.
A wonderfully penned
poem and hymn of
harvest thoughts indeed! 🙏 👍
Eloquently woven
and my pleasure to read! ☺️
Best regards ✌️ peace Thad
Thanks Thad.
Superb.
Thanks Thomas.
Good one Orchi.
By John Betjeman:
We spray the fields and scatter
The poison on the ground
So that no wicked wild flowers
Upon our farm be found
We like whatever helps us
To line our purse with pence
The twenty-four-hour broiler-house
And neat electric fence.
All concrete sheds around us
And Jaguars in the yard
The telly lounge and deep-freeze
Are ours for working hard.
We fire the fields for harvest
The hedges swell the flame
The oak trees and the cottages
From which our fathers came
We give no compensation
The earth is ours today
And if we lose the arable
The bungalows will pay.
All concrete sheds around us
And Jaguars in the yard
The telly lounge and deep-freeze
Are ours for working hard.
Thanks Gold. A worldly poem there by Betjeman.
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