And he spoke to them at length in parables, saying:
“A sower went out to sow.
And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path,
and birds came and ate it up.
Some fell on rocky ground, where it had little soil.
It sprang up at once because the soil was not deep,
and when the sun rose it was scorched,
and it withered for lack of roots.
Some seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it.
But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit,
a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.
Whoever has ears ought to hear.”
—Matthew 13: 1-9
As if the sower scatters blind
on rocks and brambles he can't see—
or as he gives the ground its time
to show what it will come to be.
The dirt road where the birds swoop down,
that verges on an empty field,
still has its cracks where seeds can sprout,
and God alone knows what it yields.
The field beside it springing green:
Who knows how deep its richness runs?
The flowers each new morning brings
tomorrow wither in the sun.
And everywhere the hidden thorns
whose roots and runner choke new life,
whose tendrils crown each seedling born
with daily care and daily strife.
But you are not content to plow
the tended earth in lines and rows:
You seek the lost, farflung good ground,
and where you find it, there you sow.
Then cast your harvest in my soul,
O Christ the sower wasting seeds.
O spendthrift, foolish prodigal,
grow all the good there is in me.
Kate Bluett 