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25
HARVEST.
The everlasting miracle is being wrought
again.
The corns of wheat that, perishing ’neath
crumbled clods had lain,
Have risen to yield their sixty-fold ; and the
bare and sandy plain
In happy resurrection smiles, a field of
waving grain!
Thus many a lonely heart
Our Lord hath set apart;
Hath called it for His own,
Hath had it tilled and sown ;
And while for him it yieldeth glad
increase,
It findeth for itself eternal peace.
II.
But oh! the fairy forest land, which lilce a
laughing maid
In flower-embroidered draperies is daintily
arrayed—
The trees that stand like stalwart sons—roust
