My allotted plot of consciousness was small. I let it lie barren, producing no crops of life-sustaining culture. And now the bleak winter of dead opportunities is approaching with its shroud of unproductivity.
My lot is small and my season is short, yet I want a mighty harvest. So, forging through the kingdoms within, I conquered many states of new acquirements, and now the territory of my consciousness is large.
But, Father Divine, I have billions of my hungry thought-families and their little ones to feed. So Thou must know that I need a big harvest of Thy whispers in the short season of earth-life.
The waters of craving fell many times, and yet I kept my soil of culture untilled. Now, I am using the motor-plow of my incessant, scientific search for Thee.
May Thine unseen hand, O Divine Sower, throw the living seeds of Thy thoughts into the cultivated furrows of my mind.
In the short season of earthly life, I want to reap the largest harvest of Thy cosmic contact.