Let me rustle freely when He gathers His sheaves.
We are the grain, in fields where He endeavors;
the sprouting seeds grown with love, hope, charity.
The Son shines upon us with such clarity.
Only the faithful, amber stalks are gathered;
the rest turns to dust in the fields, weathered.
Uplift all that I am in faithful repose,
He gathers us all by hand where’er he goes.
We are His bounty from many fields where sin
threw a fit causing disease, let the bugs in.
Many were blind to evil, took supplements,
they suffered Satan’s ill-will, vicious torments.
Bringing in the sheaves, He cries for the many
who have given their souls in search of plenty.
Return to Him everything that is His due—
give Him your love and He’ll stand right beside you.
Each grain lost had the same love, His endeavor.
I’m His harvest and will be thus … forever!
In vast, amber fields, sown, we’ll be His harvest
so keep gold your crown, your heart pure … in earnest.
All the sheaves He gathers live infinity!