Those who sow the wind shall reap the storm;
great injustice springs from tiny seeds.
See how high the bitter wheat has grown:
Shall we 'scape the harvest of our deeds?
Turn, oh Ephraim; turn and take your words.
(Take no gold, for it is stained with blood;
take no victims from your ravaged herds.)
Take yourselves and pledge them to the good.
God who loved you as a mother does,
holding to her cheek a cherished babe,
will restore your goodness as it was
ere you wrought your plowshares into blades.
Turn again your fallow, war-torn fields;
sow good seed that sends a piercing root
down into the heart, and harvest yields
manifold on every rising shoot.
God, who loves you still, will send the rain,
send the sunlight of a glorious day,
gather you as reapers gather grain,
hold you in his loving arms always.
Kate Bluett 