Sun streaked fields of amber wheat and rye
each ye's yield- more precious than I.
Through labors in dust and toiled strife
comes a sweaty browed and blistered life.
With wind swept plains of golden grains
-from birth thy scent of heaven wanes-
she waxes with servitude and iron wrought
yoked with oxen- but one, be cursed with thought!
By what shall then a man number his years-
sweltering days, lunar floods, or jars of tears
when all thy wicked kin, be dead in sin
what hath I to again- but walk therein-
as a beast of burden reviled in dust-
and consume away my days with unslaked lust?
Rocking rye and furrowed crops of gold
thy beast who tills, lives but as a tale long foretold-
like bullworks under Pharaoh's whips of old
following commands of men- they die to uphold.
For a mother in travail- should we weep and mourn
for the little one's into this wickedness borne!
Hear! O' cry for Lady Wisdom- all whom believe
know ye well how sore she grieves!
For even if she springs up as a desert rose
her life be laden and riddled with woes!
O' you sun streaked fields of amber wheat and rye
yes, what each ye yields- thought, more precious than I!
For I have naught to offer but perhaps to inspire-
for my spirit refuses to work of Pharaoh's hire!
But all ye beasts of burden, hath but to inquire
'seek ye first,' then shalt thou acquire-
For this- it's written, be the Lord's desire.
For your shiny plowshares and shackles He can bust
it is your souls- then, that be covered in rust!
Yes, work and toil therein- you must…
to become ye more- than but shadows and dust…
…shadows and dust.
Mat 11:28 "Come to me, all you who labor and are heavily burdened, and I will give you rest."