SOW in the morn your seed,

We know not which may thrive, The late or early sown; Grace keeps the precious seed alive When and wherever strown.

And duly shall appear, In living beauty, strength, The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, And the full corn at length.

We cannot toil in vain; Cold, heat, and moist, and dry Shall foster and mature the grain For garners in the sky.

Then, when the glorious end, The Day of God is come, The angel reapers shall descend, And Heaven cry, ‘Harvest home.’