Classic Poem

Press the grape, the sweet wine flows;
Break the ground, the harvest grows;
Crush the shell, the kernel shows.

As with nature so with man;
Such God's universal plan
Ever since the race began.

Fallow souls no fruitage bear;
Hearts untouched by wholesome care
Never yield the vintage rare.

Vain God's constant dew and sun;
Still the gracious work undone —
Nay, in truth, not yet begun.

Still the soil no harvest yields;
So the Lord his ploughshare wields,
Drives it deep through all his fields;

Drives it deep and drives it sure;
Ah, my soul! canst thou endure?
Patience! He who wounds can cure.

Better his ploughshare than his sword;
Nathless, can I say, " Dear Lord,
Do according to thy word!

" Root up every baleful thing,
Every germ of folly bring
Topmost, for its withering? "

Thus prepared, the heavenly seed
Planted, shall take root indeed,
Yielding harvests at our need.

Harvests, too, whose bounteous store,
Even life forevermore,
Scattered, shall enrich the poor.