Wednesday, February 24, 2010


His golden fields are rich with grain
His store-house over-flows
I see his pleasure ‘neath my pain
My cross beholds his rose
And in my state of discontent
I cry out “Father, why”
In wickedness his field was sown
Yet wealth is Your reply

In tenderness He takes my hand
And lifts my face to Him
“Child, when You don’t understand
When hope and strength grow dim,
I will still be at Your side
Your grandest wealth awaits
The wicked in this world abide
Heedless of their fate.

The sun shines on the just, unjust
The rain on all as well
On he who’s only god is lust
His reward is hell
My child, too soon the Reaper comes
To those who shun My love
Too soon these hopeless fields shall burn
As I My Words shall prove

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

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