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| Parable of the seed sower. Those who sow seed do not always harvest, but must wait to see God's rewards in the here after. |
The Barren Easter
by Clinton Scollard
It was the barren Easter,
And o'er Pamello plain,
Where'er the sweeping eye might rove,
From beechen grove to beechen grove.
Greened neither grass nor grain.
It was the barren Easter;
By vale and windy hill,
Where blossoms tossed on yester year,
Now bourgeoned no narcissus spear,
And glowed no daffodil.
It was the barren Easter,
And toward the grinding-floor,
A store of wheat within his pack,
Along the dreary meadow-track
Went good Saint Isadore.
It was the barren Easter,
And when the sweet saint came
To where a mighty live-oak spread,
A host of wrens and starlings red
Seemed crying out his name.
It was the barren Easter,
And to his ears their cry
Rang plaintively, "O Isadore,
Grant us thy pity, we implore!
Give succor, or we die! "
It was the barren Easter
When wide he flung his store.
And all the feathered folk of air
Sped whirring downward for their share
From kind Saint Isadore.
It was the barren Easter
And onward to the mill
Along the dreary meadow-track.
The empty bags within his pack,
The good saint plodded still.
It was the barren Easter;
He scarce knew why he went,
Save that he did not dare return
To face his master, grim and stem.
Now all his grain was spent.
It was the barren Easter;
When at the miller's feet
He cast the sacks in dull despair,
Behold, he saw them open there
Abrim with golden wheat !
It was the barren Easter;
Oh, meager are men's words
To tell how He that rose that day.
And drove the wraith of Death away,
Helped him who fed the birds!
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