Matthew 13:24-30 NASB

Jesus presented another parable to them, saying, “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a man who sowed good seed in his field. But while his men were sleeping, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went away. But when the wheat sprouted and bore grain, then the tares became evident also.

“The slaves of the landowner came and said to him, ‘Sir, did you not sow good seed in your field? How then does it have tares?’ And he said to them, ‘An enemy has done this!’ The slaves said to him, ‘Do you want us, then, to go and gather them up?’

“But he said, ‘No; for while you are gathering up the tares, you may uproot the wheat with them. Allow both to grow together until the harvest; and in the time of the harvest I will say to the reapers, “First gather up the tares and bind them in bundles to burn them up; but gather the wheat into my barn.”‘”


There are tares among the wheat!  It’s evident to us all. How could a field, sown good by God, be so filled with wretchedness? Why does the world hurt so much? “Allow both to grow together until the harvest,” he says. The harvest is coming. The harvest is coming, and then the long years of pain will find justice, joy, the tears wiped away.

-Brian Rhea

Our life is long. Not so, wise Angels say
Who watch us waste it, trembling while they weigh
Against eternity one squandered day.

Our life is long. Not so, the Saints protest,
Filled full of consolation and of rest:
“Short ill, long good, one long unending best.”

Our life is long. Christ’s word sounds different:
“Night cometh: no more work when day is spent.
Repent and work today, work and repent.”

Lord, make us like Thy Host who day nor night
Rest not from adoration, their delight,
Crying “Holy, Holy, Holy,” in the height.

Lord, make us like Thy Saints who wait and long
Contented: bound in hope and freed from wrong
They speed (may be) their vigil with a song.

Lord, make us like Thyself: for thirty-three
Slow years of toil seemed not too long to Thee,
That where Thou art, there Thy Beloved might be.

—Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)


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