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Twilight Harvest is the art upon which the poem, The Lord of the Harvest rests. I use the word "rests" because the painting with Tom Schmidt's poem is meant as solace and comfort to those who have co-labored diligently for the advancement of the Kingdom of God.
The Lord of the Harvest
I stepped into the haze of dawn.
Stretched my legs across the gulf of time.
I planted my feet on fertile soil.
My back was young.
My muscles rippled.
I dipped my scythe into the wheat and waited.
Then, I heard it _ the master's call.
Reap the harvest _ hoe to it _ no slack.
I must all be felled by nightfall.
I fell to with the enthusiasm of youth.
The swish of our rhythm was mesmerizing.
The day grew, the heat parched our lips,
But we dare not slack.
The day grew, and our sinews trembled.
Our muscles ached with loss of youth.
The day sky waned into the eve.
Everywhere we looked it seemed an
endless sea of wheat.
Master we cried, we can not do it.
Please don't fault us.
Our blades have dulled,
The field is so big,
Our replacements too few.
Master, where are the laborers
don't they know it's harvest time?
This painting is dedicated to Tom Schmidt and his family.
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