Horse by Bobby Mikul
The little birds by God are fed
But man must earn his daily bread,
And work that he may eat;
Striving his best, as John does now,
The broad ten-acre field to plough,
Wherein to sow the wheat.
Old John, the ploughman, ne'er repines,
Whether it blows, or rains, or shines,
But happy still does seem;
And Dick, who leads the foremost horse,
Goes whistling as he walks across
The field beside the team.
Let us perform as gladly, too,
The work our Master bids us do,
And then we need not fear;
But when from earthly toil we rest,
We all shall meet among the blest
Who served Him truly here.