A sower went forth to sow

Matthew 13:3 “Behold, a sower went forth to sow.”

William St. Hill Bourne, minister and poet, wrote “The Sower went forth sowing.” The hymn was written in 1874 for the Harvest Festival at Christ Church, South Ashford, Kent. It was printed in Church Bells that same year, and in Hymns Ancient and Modern in 1875 (Hymn 386). The meter is 7s.6s., 12 lines. William St. Hill Bourne was born August 24, 1846 and died in March of 1929, and is apparently buried at St. Marylebone Cemetery.

It is considered a “Harvest Hymn,” and also appropriate as a burial hymn.

The tune St. Beatrice, with which it is most often seen in hymnals, was written by English organist and composer John Frederick Bridge, Sir John Frederick Bridge was born December 5 1844 and died March 18, 1924. He is buried at the Wallakirk Graveyard in Haugh of Glass, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. He also has a memorial plaque in Westminster Abbey in London, where he was organist for 36 years (and afterward “Organist Emeritus” until his death). The last stanza of this hymn is paired with the tune Hauff by contemporary shapenote composer P. Dan Brittain – number 175 in The Missouri Harmony, 2005 Edition.

1. The sower went forth sowing,
The seed in secret slept
Through weeks of faith and patience,
Till out the green blade crept;
And warmed by golden sunshine,
And fed by silver rain,
At last the fields were whitened
To harvest once again.
O praise the heavenly Sower,
Who gave the fruitful seed,
And watched and watered duly,
And ripened for our need.

2. Behold! the heavenly Sower
Goes forth with better seed,
The Word of sure salvation,
With feet and hands that bleed;
Here in his church ’tis scattered,
Our spirits are the soil;
Then let an ample fruitage
Repay His pain and toil.
Oh, beauteous is the harvest,
Wherein all goodness thrives,
And this the true thanksgiving,
The first-fruits of our lives.

3. Within a hallowed acre
He sows yet other grain,
When peaceful earth receiveth
The dead he died to gain;
For though the growth be hidden,
We know that they shall rise;
Yea even now they ripen
In sunny Paradise.
O summer land of harvest,
O fields forever white
With souls that wear Christ’s raiment,
With crowns of golden light.

4. One day the heavenly Sower
Shall reap where he hath sown,
And come again rejoicing,
And with him bring his own;
And then the fan of judgment
Shall winnow from his floor
The chaff into the furnace
That flameth evermore.
O holy, awful Reaper,
Have mercy in the day,
Thou puttest in the sickle,
And cast us not away.