The field I reap,
The harvest of attainment,
The ripened yield that bends with the wind and reaches to the light,
Is not the fruitage of a single season.

The land is cleared:
The scrub growth cut and burned and cut and binned,
The stubborn roots dug out persistently.

The land is stoned:
The pebbles cropped, the rocks
Are mined and blasted irresistibly.

The land lies fallow
While the turning disk of the days
Harrows its hardness to friability.

The land is contoured
For the vigorous thrust
To its maturity.

When this field, this thought of mine,
Is cleared, stoned, lies fallow,
And contoured for its harvest time,
Its golden destination.
Thy will be done.

Margaret Hovenden Ogden

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Correcting Through Healing
October 2, 1965

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