I’m drivin’ backward to the farm--
The harvest day is done,
And I’m passing by God’s Acre
At the setting o’ the Sun:
And I slow the homing horses--
For I must soliloquize
On that white crop standin’ silent
Against the crimson skies.
I guess there’s tares aplenty--
And I guess there’s lots o’ chaff,
And I guess there’s many stories that
Ed make a feller laugh.
And I guess there’s mebbe stories
Ed make a feller weep,
And the Angels kind o’ whisper
As around the stones they creep.
Well, the Lord He up and planted--
And the Harvest’s come to head;
(And He shore is most particular
When all is done and said).
But I reckon when it’s sifted,
And the Crop is in the bin,
It’ll be a durned hard sinner
As the Lord ain’t gathered in.