To farm was our calling,
In bloom and leaves falling,
With dignity, purpose and grace.
But then came the weevil,
That cowardly evil,
To tempt us away from his face.
And now there is toil –
No fruit from this soil,
But gravel and sickening waste.
We’ve tried in our own power,
Enslaved, crushed, and scoured,
To find just a slight little taste.
And we’ll never be able,
To bring farm to table,
In our strength, but rescue we need.
His whole mighty plan,
To the dumpster he ran,
Gives life in a new tiny seed.
And though there is scavenge,
Wellsprings just of ravens,
One day the foragers rest –
Because he is father,
The chef – porter – lodger,
Holding the hungry to breast.
And when we arrive then,
It won’t be a drive-in,
But a banquet prepared for a king.
We’ll sup to our fill,
Laugh hard and be still,
‘tween chords of praise that we’ll sing.
Water and sunlight, soil and hands;
Let there be might, and strength;
And dirt – oh that bed-pillow of life…
God, in his wisdom, brought food.