I stood at the edge of a field brown and vast,

With furrows so deep and straight,

And thought of the harvest yet to come,

And the Farmer who would come through the gate

Before that could be, the seed had to be sown

Not only in faith, but with care;

Slowly passing of time, the showers and sun

Would transform that field yet so bare.

With hope would the Farmer eagerly survey

The brown field slowly changing to green:

He would think of the promising harvest to come,

And of last year's, the one that had been.

The green growing now taller and taller,

See the heads turning golden white;

The harvest is ready and plenteous,

Reapers work hard while it is light.

The Lord of the harvest has furrowed His field,

Has scattered His seed, knows how much it will yield:

He has kept it through danger of storms and of flood,

Before that great harvest. He first shed His blood.

When He sends forth the reapers to gather us in,

Will we be ready, saved, cleansed from all sin?

Yes! I gladly look forward to seeing that gate

If you are not yet ready, don't leave it too late!

The harvest, now gathered, has gone through the gate -

All that remains await an awesome fate.

Alas the flames approaching, sweep across the field

Burning all before it - those heads that would not yield!

Yes, gladly I look forward to going through that gate;

If you are not yet ready, don't let it be too late.

Frank Robbins (12-10-97)