Field of Choosing

Give me a field I may labor in, a spot of earth all mine to till, 
Allow for but one minute sliver of this small and blessed orb.
For there is no brighter place well suited to perform thy will,
Than the pleasing garden in the quiet presence of my Lord.
To begin, I will remove the stones which block the solid ground,
Making way for young seed to scatter on every withered side. 
Breaking the crust of sun-dried dust so new life may be found,
On these hills of dirt which cherish the promise of harvest time. 
Each new season of life passes with careless unattended notice,
The sun rises as sure as beads of sweat upon my furrowed head.
Crushing heat at top of the day, a work for future promise,
Each kernel carefully placed, given warmth, moisture and rest.

To each is called on acres of choosing, a place on this dizzy span,
For most is but a mirage of chance and luck and crooked means.
Still others 'tis not a care to question the course of every man,
Who desperately grasp the one yet despise the hallowed dreams. 
The weeds of care arise with time, each bitter entangled shoot, 
Sprouting with quicker pace astride the stock of goodly growth. 
To remove the bad with the righteous defeats the choicest fruit,
Let them spring together so each may reap what he has sown. 
One breaks the other plants but tis God who sends the rain,
Of they who steal and scatter tares to seek to thwart the yield.
The Master of the harvest grants reprieve from tarnished pain,
That I might labor with riches of glory in this His chosen field.