The plowman plows his Master’s seeds, deep
Into lives desperate in need.
He plows whether home or abroad,
Over vast fields that are ready to harvest.
He plants holy seeds that will soon
Reach to celestial skies. He’s aware of tares
Among men who infiltrate like spies:
Like wild weeds among the crop.
But, someday the Sowers and Reapers shall
Suddenly cease. Yet the Plowman plows
To receive a royal reward—
When his faith shall be found,
Like a pruned branch bearing much fruit.
His laboring shall be sweet
At his Master’s feet. Plow on then servant,
In wet and sunny seasons, destined for eternal reasons.
Darrel Venable
Divinity Poetry 