p. 2 | GOD’S PLOW OF SORROW by Robert Clarkson Tongue

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 7, 1898

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 24, No. 14.

GOD’S PLOW OF SORROW.

By Robert Clarkson Tongue

God’s plow of sorrow! Sterile is The field that is not turned thereby; And but a scanty harvest his Whom the great Plowman passeth by. God’s plow of sorrow! All in vain His richest seed bestrews the sod; And spent for naught the sun and rain On glebes that are not plowed of God. He ploweth well, He ploweth deep, And where He ploweth angels reap.

God’s plow of sorrow! Gentle child, I do not ask that He may spare Thy tender soul, tho undefiled, Nor turn it with His iron share. Be thine His after-rain of love; And where His heavy plow hath passed, May mellow furrows bear above A holier harvest at the last! He ploweth well, He ploweth deep, And where He ploweth angels reap.

—Robert Clarkson Tongue, in Independent.