Those Who Sow in Tears

The Keeper of the Orchard

No one could remember when the orchard had last borne fruit. The trees stood gnarled and gray, their branches twisted like clenched fists against the wind. Villagers passing on the road would shake their heads and mutter, A waste of soil. Children dared each other to run between the trunks, swearing the air there smelled of old rain that never fell.

Yet every morning, before the mist had lifted from the hills, an old man walked the rows with a bucket of water. His gait was slow, but each step fell with quiet purpose. He carried no pruning shears, no sacks for harvest. Only water.

He never spoke of what he did or why. The villagers assumed he was mad, or perhaps simply stubborn. His family was gone—no one could say how or when—and he lived in a small hut at the orchard’s edge, mending his own clothes and trading small carvings for bread.

Years passed. Storms tore branches from the trees; summer heat cracked their bark. Still he walked, each day, with the bucket. In winter, when the earth hardened to stone, he would stand beside the trunks, empty-handed, his palm resting on the bark as if listening for something.

Some winters, he would disappear for a day or two, returning with scratches on his arms and mud on his boots. He never said where he went, but the villagers guessed he was fetching water from the far springs.

Children grew to adults. New houses were built in the village. Roads shifted. Still the orchard stood gray and silent, and the old man walked its rows.

One spring, the old man’s steps slowed so much that it took him the whole day to reach the far side of the orchard. His bucket rattled when he set it down. On the first morning of summer, he did not rise from his bed. By evening, the hut was empty, its door swinging gently on the wind.

The orchard lay untended that week. And then the next.

It was the youngest boy in the village who noticed it first—a glint of green on one of the lowest branches. Then another. Within a month, the trees were covered in blossoms so pale they looked like moonlight caught in the air. By autumn, fruit swelled on the branches—golden, heavy, fragrant.

When the first bite was taken, it was so sweet the villagers laughed aloud without knowing why.

No one could say what had changed. Some swore it was just a good year for rain. Others whispered about the old man, wondering if he’d known this day would come.

But the trees did not answer. They only stood in their long rows, roots sunk deep into soil watered for decades by hands that had believed without seeing.

Lyrics

Verse 1
The ground is dry, the sky is brass
The plow is heavy in my grasp
I cast the seed, I wipe my face
And pray for mercy, pray for grace

No thunder rolls, no sudden flood
Just hands that blister, boots in mud
I water with the only stream
That sorrow ever dared to dream

Chorus
But those who sow in tears
Will reap with shouts of joy
Each weeping step will yield
A harvest none can spoil

Though heaven may seem silent
The seed is never lost
Revival grows where no one knows—
Beneath the tears it cost

Verse 2
The soil resists, the roots grow slow
No signs of green, no rush to grow
Still I return, day after day
To love the field and kneel and pray

I see no bloom, but still I trust
The One who breathed life from the dust
And promised not one drop would fall
In vain from eyes that gave their all

Chorus
For those who sow in tears
Will reap with shouts of joy
Each weary step will yield
A song no thief can spoil

Though fruit delays its coming
And hope feels nearly lost
Revival waits in furrowed faith—
Beneath the tears it cost

Bridge
He does not mock the faithful hands
That work without applause or plans
The Lord of rain sees every cry
And stores the sorrow others dry

So plant the truth in rocky ground
And preach the cross where thorns abound
The joy you dream is not in vain—
The sheaves will sing in Jesus’ name

Final Chorus
Yes, those who sow in tears
Will reap with shouts of joy
The years you thought were lost
Were seeds God will employ

The morning will break open
The clouds will pay the cost
Revival comes to tear-stained fields—
And never what they lost

Tag
So sow again, and do not fear
The harvest waits… for those who sow in tears