As the builder beholds a great tower
He with working hands had raised,
Or the teacher, as a blooming flower
Grows in its own wondrous ways;
So the farmer beholds his yield,
Grown by God’s sweet land and he —
How it colors so the lovely field!
How splendid, the land in finery!
Yet — watch! not with vigor less
Prepares the scythe to scrape the paints
And lay the massive canvas fresh:
A season’s work anew awaits!
But first, long robed in rosy band,
For God, who blesses His promised land.