The Fields Are White

A Poem Inspired by Matthew 9:35-38

Along the dusty roads He went,

Where weary feet and sorrow met,

Through village gate and market square,

Where grief was thick upon the air.

No crown adorned His gentle brow,

No trumpet marked His passing now;

Yet in His wake the broken rose,

And light fell soft on hidden woes.

He walked where sorrow made its bed,

Where silent tears were daily shed;

Where sickness clung like evening frost

And hope seemed small, and nearly lost.

He spoke, and trembling hearts grew still,

He touched, and time forgot its ill;

For mercy moved within His sight

Like dawn that breaks the longest night.

He saw the crowds that pressed the way,

The tired souls in pale array—

Their faces lined with unseen fears,

Their garments worn with wandering years.

They moved like flocks that roam alone

Across a land of dust and stone,

No shepherd’s voice to guide their tread,

No resting fields, no daily bread.

And deep within His spirit stirred

A grief no mortal tongue had heard;

For in their eyes He clearly read

The quiet hunger of the soul’s bread.

Not wrath, nor cold indifference came,

But pity like a living flame—

A tender fire that would not cease

Until their wandering found its peace.

O vast the fields before His gaze,

Their silent rows in golden haze;

The harvest swayed in ripened light,

Awaiting hands both strong and right.

Yet few the workers in that land

To gather grain with willing hand;

The fruit stood waiting, full and wide,

While empty paths stretched far and wide.

Then softly to His friends He turned,

Whose hearts with growing wonder burned:

“The harvest waits,” He gently said,

“While laborers are few instead.

Lift up your eyes and see the plain—

The bending stalks, the swelling grain.

Pray to the Lord who owns the field

That hands may come, and hearts may yield.”

So still the ancient summons calls

Beyond the years, beyond the walls;

Across the noise of restless days

It moves through time with quiet ways.

For still the wandering crowds remain

In hidden grief, in silent pain;

Still many walk through shadowed lands

And wait for mercy’s open hands.

The roads are long, the villages wide,

And sorrow walks on every side;

Yet hope, like wheat in summer sun,

Awaits the work not yet begun.

And somewhere still, with patient sight,

The Lord beholds the harvest white—

The endless fields, the waiting grain,

The promise bright beyond the plain.

O hearts that hear this ancient plea,

Lift up your eyes and learn to see:

The world is vast, the need is deep,

And many wander like lost sheep.

Yet where compassion dares to tread,

And gentle words of life are said,

The harvest gathers, row by row,

Where seeds of quiet mercy grow.

So walk the roads where sorrow lies,

And carry hope where darkness sighs;

For in the fields of human pain

The Lord still waits to reap His grain.