‘Twas the night before harvest, when all through the house; the farmer was stirring, disrupting his spouse.
His stockings on his feet, a very lucky pair; in hopes that the combine would not need repair.
The equipment was nestled all snug in the shed; for soon they would attach the combines to their heads.
Morning will come and as harvest begins; grain will flow from the combine to the grain cart, then the truck, to the bins.
The farmer lays awake in strong anticipation; wondering how each field will perform, a great fixation.
For each Harvest determines performance for the year; he’s worried post-harvest he won’t be in the clear.
His legacy is on the line, a bit mind-boggling; it’s his way of life, his passion, his livelihood, his true calling.
His son is just one, but someday he hopes; to pass this farm on and show him the ropes.
He knows God in control, his worries are a bother; at the end of the day, it’s up to the Father.
So the farmer turns over, wrestling with the sheets; while his wife lays awake, praying he’d just go to sleep.
She knows it’s her time, to be strong for them both; for harvest can be stressful, it’s really no joke.
But somehow every year, they all make it through; and become stronger together with their faith in clear view.
