The Sower Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

He puts his hand upon the plow
Gaze steady, straight ahead
The sower labors wheat to grow
And earn his daily bread

Rich harvests pour from grain that's thrown
By those who warnings heed
Of ancient orders hewn in stone
'Sow not with mingled seed.'

From wayside shrubs the tempter calls
'Take charge of this, your field.
Choose your own fate, stand firm and tall.
Mix kernels, reap more yield.'

The sower hearkens to this lure
Profaning hallowed ways
While fear wells as the harvest nears
Nights sleepless, restless days

Disdaining sacred timeworn signs
Succumbing to his greed
He finds at long sought reaping time
Arms empty, home in need

Yet like a sprout in desert sand
That pushes through life's drought
He can rejoin the prophet's stand
Set Satan's wiles to nought

He puts his hand upon the plow
Gaze steady, straight ahead
The sower labors wheat to grow
And earn his daily bread.