In my zeal I built a thousand silos wherewith to hold my grain,

but I’ve just one filled silo, and that with toil and pain.

A thousand acres I would work; the harvest is white and great,

but just one acre is my lot, one field on which I wait.

So here I’ll stay and will always pray for the nine hundred ninety and nine,

with my blood and tears, labor and toil, to spill on the field which is mine.

GS