The yellow fields were parched and dry,
The cracked and dusty earth cried out;
Three generations wondered why
The summer brought a cruel drought.
But grandfather took up the key,
And father hooked the baler tight,
While grandson stacked the wagon free,
To haul the golden crop by night.
Though weather dry had tried the land,
The heavy bales now fill the floor,
Preserved by God's sustaining hand,
We praise him for his endless store.