The Farmer

His hands were old and wrinkled, they were callused from the toil;
Farming was his living, and his living came from the soil.

Each season brought new surprises-some good and some bad-
Each year seemed like a gamble, but farming was all he had.

His day began at sunrise and lasted long after the sun went down;
Some seasons when it didn't rain, you noticed his worried frown.

Regardless of his success of harvest, his faith in God was strong.
The Lord smiled down on the farmer, as his years just plowed along.

He was there when he sowed the seeds, He always sent the rain-
He was there when the crops failed, He felt the farmer's pain.

The farmer's life was full, filled with sun, rain, soil, new life;
He raised his children from the land, and by his side was his wife.

His pride was being a farmer, his Bible rested in his callused hand,
As he thanked God for the privilege of caring for His great land.

Thank you, Dear Lord, for farms and crops, the sun and rain we get,
For the caretakers of Your land who sacrificed, toiled, and sweat.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem