by John Barron
How rich the fields He plants,
Ripe and lush with fruit.
Lord the work of thy hand,
Has once more taken root.
For in splendor and display,
No finer bounty could compare.
See how lovely is Your bloom,
And sweet smelling is the air.
If we could be Your field,
How blessed indeed we’d be.
For all that we contained,
Is Your harvest and not of me.
And from this holy pasture,
Springs pollen for Your seeds.
Lifted by winged word aloft,
To share where there are needs.
And so Lord do You provide,
For the creation from Your hand.
From one planting onto another,
A constant blessing upon the land.
Yet some of these sprout weeds,
Of evil works and choices made.
Spreading to Your fertile fields,
Dimming the beauty of thy glade.
But this is Your plan too,
Do not despair is Your advice.
For if we patiently accept them,
The grace You shower will suffice.
Your handiwork upon the earth,
Reflects the glory of Your deeds.
For Your mercy counters all evil,
As pollen sows among the weeds.
h/t Mr. John Barron, O.P. from the Hope of Bethany
Pro-Chapter, Lay Fraternities of Saint Dominic
John Barron is a preacher poet.