Season of the Seed
By Fred Blanchard
Are seeds planted, the action having been in vain?
For they are covered deep in dirt,
Lying as dead, in wait for a time of rain.
When will their season come to be?
For lapse of growth lingers still,
Will there be fruit or blossoms to see?
The ground is mortally wounded and dry,
From a season that lacked living water,
For deep wells of souls no longer weep or cry.
‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:’