The Plow*

It was just a fallow field
Home to mice and crow.
What it could become
Nobody seemed to know.

The field froze every winter
It lay scorched by summer suns
Untouched for many seasons
It beckoned a tiller come.

Then clods were broken up
The soil cut wide and deep
And the field began to wake
From a hundred years of sleep.

Seeds were sewn in rows
And rains birthed wondrous life
Once the field was planted
After yielding to the knife.

So like fields are we.
Our soil must be turned.
The pain of plowing hurts
But the seed of life is earned.

It’s amazing how glory comes
No one knows why or how
But increase comes in bushels
When miracles follow the plow.


*In tribute to A.W. Tozer; a man who yielded his life to the plow.