The Heavy Plow

The Plow upon His shoulder,

He walks across the land,

The earth spreads open,

Behind the steps,

Of this man.

The Planter of the seed,

Pulls the heavy Plow,

The ground is rent,

Soil bared,

His work draws a crowd.

Like a beast beneath the yoke,

He stumbles in His task,

The Plow digs deep,

As the crowd around Him laughs.

The plow row behind Him,

Opens to receive the seed,

While men and women rejoice,

To see Him on his knees.

The Plow again now rises,

Here, double yoked,

A Cyrenian pressed in service,

In this cruel, heartless joke.

The heavy Plow upon them,

They furrow up the hill,

The crowd of endless ages,

Laugh at it still.

Blood and sweat drip,

Watering the row,

The seeds begin to spring,

In the garden far below.

The heavy Plow is planted,

Firmly in the dirt,

The work is nearly finished,

Of sowing this rebirth.

The Planter on the Plow,

Looks out upon His work,

Though His heart is pierced,

He declares it – good.

Earth, now turned over,

Beneath the heavy Plow,

Stands waiting for the seed,

Yet the enemy stands by,

His hands filled with weed.

The heavy Plow continues,

Through ages, times, and seasons,

A new Garden, a new Earth,

Heaven’s fruit – the reason.

More poetry is available from James M. Hahn in The Last Dragon and Other Poems.

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