When he looked out over the crowds, his heart broke. So confused and aimless they were, like sheep with no shepherd. "What a huge harvest!" he said to his disciples. "How few workers! On your knees and pray for harvest hands!"
The fields ripe unto harvest,
Heady grains reaching toward the Son.
He stands amongst them, hand outstretched,
And the wind stirs, arousing them to expectant dance,
eager to be drawn to him who is yet unknown.
The Son bows his head in silence, waiting.
The harvesters sense not the urgency of the harvest,
Take notice not of the expiration of hope
as ungathered fruit spoils on the vine,
Or of scavengers feasting on ill-gotten gain,
For they understand not the importance of who they are,
So they unwittingly assist in destruction of tender shoots
and of one another.
He stands amongst them, hand outstretched,
The fields ripe unto harvest.
