The Sower

Borne on the breeze, His seeds are scattered,
Seemingly spread at the whim of the wind.
Some will find purchase, some will lie battered,
But each holds the code to a life without end.

And so go the words of the Sower in question,
Cloth-eared disciples are handed the key.
But Truth only germinates when it’s clandestine,
Faith is the blind spot that’s needed to see.

Strewn on the pathway, His seeds are downtrodden,
Then come the birdies to pick the plate clean.
The words have been heard but then quickly forgotten,
An email from heaven lost somewhere downstream.

It’s hard to hear truth when it’s had such a bashing:
Deepfakes and chatbots and mad culture wars.
Savaged by soundbites and gone out of fashion,
Truth often seems like a desperate cause.

Devoted consumers hard-wired for compliance,
With comfort our default, we’re flattered by liars.
So how shall that voice that is finer than silence
Be heard in this market of artful desires?

His seed then alighted on dry, stony ground,
And speedily withered, possessing no roots.
These folks cried “Amen!” but then rapidly found
That walking the talk is a trying pursuit.

They heard all the words, but their hearts were too faint,
Were moved for a moment, but didn’t bed in.
The first sign of trouble, they filed a complaint:
Such fair-weather faith never really begins.

Spiritual tourists out shopping for highs,
Emotional junkies just spinning their wheels,
And when the bliss fades, they won’t wish you goodbye:
They might come tomorrow; they’ll see how they feel.

Others are smothered by briars and thorns,
Choking the seedlings and starving their fruit.
All smiles at church, but their souls are withdrawn,
Their minds have gone AWOL, the Word is on mute.

Lulled by suburbia’s siren slumber,
Dulled by the rhythm of daily cares,
Numbed by perplexities without number,
Succumbed to a dosage of mild despair.

They go through life’s motions as though it’s a game
While wired to devices designed to distract.
“The world’s on fire? That’s a terrible shame.
We’d love to commit, but our schedule is packed.”

Safe in their siloes, they’re cushioned from pain.
When living in Heaven it’s easy as pie
To imagine the Kingdom as more of the same
And never think why that a seed needs to die.

Yet what of the few that found nourishing ground?
Ah, now our sad litany takes a new turn.
The scattergun strategy seemed less than sound
But now its true genius may be discerned.

Their seed it sank deep in the dark soil of soul,
With slow, secret sustenance, swelled and took root.
Then the first germs of faith felt the sun and unscrolled
And new life erupted in gleaming, green shoots.

For they heard the Word and it rang in their ears,
Their hearts were invaded, their lives altered course.
Through trials and hardship they still persevered,
And they multiplied life with miraculous force.

For the Father He knows every seed that will grow;
No earthly appearance can give us a clue.
We must sow willy-nilly, to the four corners go,
Then watch open-mouthed as He makes all things new.

For our least word of faith is like gold in His hands,
For His light, self-propelled, vaults the vacuum of doubt
Till it pierces the heart and a soul understands,
And the high halls of Heaven resound with His shout!

Phil Clarke 2023