When loaves are on the table, Who sees a field of wheat? Or thinks about the farmer Who grew the food we eat? Perhaps in bitter weather He had to plough and sow, As gulls behind the tractor Reminded him of snow. And while the seeds are hidden Beneath the frozen earth, He had to trust to nature To mother them at birth. He watched for those diseases That harm the tender grain, And reared to see his acres Lie rotting in the rain. But there's a joy of harvest That everyone may know: The happiness of reaping The best that we can grow. When food is on the table. And there is bread to eat, Thank God for every farmer Who has a field of wheat.