The Blind Ploughman

SET my hands upon the plough, My feet upon the sod; Turn my face towards the east, And praise be to God!

Every year the rains do fall, The seeds they stir and spring; Every year the spreading trees Shelter birds that sing.

From the shelter of your heart, Brother—drive out sin, Let the little birds of faith Come and nest therein.

God has made His sun to shine On both you and me; God, who took away my eyes, That my soul might see!