Slow up the hill the plough team plod, Old Callow at the task of God, Helped by man’s wit, helped by the brute Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, His eyes for ever on some sign To help him plough a perfect line. At top of rise the plough team stopped, The fore-horse bent his head and cropped Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle, The lean reins gather through the cringle, The figures move against the sky, The clay wave breaks as they go by. I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, I knew that Christ was there with Callow, That Christ was standing there with me, That Christ had taught me what to be, That I should plough, and as I ploughed My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, And as I drove the clods apart Christ would be ploughing in my heart, Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, Through all my bad life’s rotten fruits. O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn for ever singing; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there. And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest’s yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ. The share will jar on many a stone, Thou wilt not let me stand alone; And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail), Thy hand on mine upon the hale. Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester Road, Thy everlasting mercy showed The ploughman patient on the hill For ever there, for ever still, Ploughing the hill with steady yoke Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke. I’ve marked the May Hill ploughman stay There on his hill, day after day Driving his team against the sky, While men and women live and die. And now and then he seems to stoop To clear the coulter with the scoop, Or touch an ox to haw or gee While Severn stream goes out to sea. The sea with all her ships and sails, And that great smoky port in Wales, And Gloucester tower bright i’ the sun, All know that patient wandering one. And sometimes when they burn the leaves The bonfires’ smoking trails and heaves, And girt red flames twink and twire As though he ploughed the hill afire. And in men’s hearts in many lands A spiritual ploughman stands For ever waiting, waiting now, The heart’s ’Put in, man, zook the plough.’