By Ken Blue
The farm of a rich man,
Yielded him his reward.
His barns were filled with grain,
But he forgot the Lord.
This year was unusual;
His land brought forth tenfold.
The fields produced a harvest,
His barns could not hold.
He tore down the old barns,
Large ones will solve my plight.
It didn’t occurred to him,
His soul would leave that night.
As you plan to retire,
To take your rest, and ease.
Tonight could be the night,
Then who will possess these?
Each man is a poor man,
No matter what his hoard.
His soul’s in poverty,
Who dies without the Lord.