When I Quit, You Can Put Dirt On Me. (Harvester)

I've come to lay my face to the dirt,
it's the closest thing I have to a second birth.
Say, that your well is rich with life,
and your river runs abundantly through it.
You chose to ignore,
the path that was laid out.
Scorched and frail,
are the words you utter now.
On all the other earths you've sown,
nothing grew, just withered in the sun.
And all along you've had a home,
now drought and dry and dust have come.

And the clouds darken still,
after the torrent of rain.
The harvester nears,
and his footsteps resound like a drum.
A voice echoes out:
“Son, do you know where you stand?”
But, before I respond,
heaven and hell ring as one.

With a shout of acclamation,
I express my newborn clarity.
For what is lost can be restored,
“My God, take my blindness from me!”

We were handmade.
We once were firm but we won't hide our years.
Underneath the boards you will find these words.
Let our foundation tell our story.

In spite of earthly squalls, our family overcomes.
In spite of scarce supplies, the silo walls withheld.
In spite of severed limbs, our roots remain unscathed.
In spite of weaknesses, our strengths outweigh them all.
In spite of soaking clothes, the troughs have overflowed
into a bountiful harvest, that's flourished ever since
The sun contests the moon, and light and dark eclipse.
In one accord we see the balance still remains.
The barn birthed by our hands, has grown to bare it's own
with spider webs and notes, we scribble words of hope.