Upon the Patience of the Husbandman for the Harvest

No prudent husbandman expects

The fruit of what he sows,

‘Til every cause have its effects,

And then he reaps and mows:

He works in hope the year throughout,

And counts no labour lost,

If, when the season comes about,

His harvest quits his cost.

His rare example justly may

Rebuke and put to shame

My soul; which sows its seed and ease

And looks to reap the same.

Is cursed nature now become

So kind a soil to grace,

That to perfection it should come

Within so short a space?

Gace springs not up with seed and ease,

Like mushrooms in a night;

But rather by degrees increase,

As doth the morning light.

Is corn so dear to husbandmen?

Much more is heav’n to me;

Why should not I have patience then

To wait as well as he?

To promises, appointed years,

By God’s decrees, are set;

These once expir’d, beyond its fears

My soul shall quickly get.

How small a part of hasty time,

Which quickly will expire,

Doth me within this world confine,

And then comes my desire.

Come, Lord, how long my soul hath gasp’d!

Faith my affections warms;

O when shall my poor soul be clasp’d

In its Redeemer’s arms!

The time seems long, yet here I’ll lie,

‘Till thou, my God, do call:

It is enough, eternity

Will make amends for all.

— John Flavel (1627-1691)