On the threshing floor the reaper scatters chaff to the wind

The hard work of a hard day

He plows and seeds and chops and hoes

And chases birds and rats

Prays for rain and sunny days in proper amount

He watches his field and sees a million green children dance for him

And greaves for one broken stem

The grain is tall and bends its heavy head

The reaper's scythe slices near the root

and lays every stalk down to sleep

And bundles sheathes to dry

To be trampled on the threshing floor

Broken and split, tossed high to pull the corn loose

And let the stems and stalks and leaves

Blow back across the fields

The reaper sweeps the grain

Sacks and ties and stacks next year in the barn

His barn will hold the grain

But could never keep the chaff

All things serve their time

And can not stay past their season

The reaper knows his craft

Stalks hold the grain to the sun

But must return to the field

The wind that battered down young sprouts

Pulls the chaff from the seed on the threshing floor

The reaper knows the fields grow much more than he can keep

The barn holds such a small part of his labor

But all must be used in its time and season.