THE HARVEST

All the fields have turned to weed
choked and smothered, all good seed,
the hot, dry wind of Satan’s breath
searing, putrid, bringing death.

The evil hoards seem to have won
dank mists and fogs blot out the sun,
in his darkness, no hope is seen
for hatred is his blinding screen.

But there’s an army on the way
who in the end will save the day,
the Flame of Love, their only plough
to Almighty God, they ever bow.

They’ll burn the weeds and plant anew
and sprinkle with the heavenly dew,
sent from the Father and the Son
the Spirit and Mary, for the new day begun.

When each field is fertilized in love
with the wisdom and knowledge of God above,
a harvest of gold, on that day He will reap
each ripened ear, forever to keep.

Margaret Rose Larrivee
July 15, 1994