Title: Hymn of the Grayson Farmer by Harold Feld (c) 2008
Tune: The Puddler's Tale by Stan Rogers
The sun awakens in the sky, Yeltsin yet stands on the horizon
As we farmers go forth and try to wring our bread from the fields of poison
On this world that the Tester made, and bid Saint Austin lead the people
We shall pray for His love and aid, that to His test we may prove equal.
For though our world be green and fair
She cannot grow the food to feed us
We filter water, soil and air
But still the metals do defeat us
So build new farms in space above
Leave our homes to work with strangers
Ah how we miss the ones we love
While keeping watch for deadly dangers
"All hands to guns!" As mad Masadans try
To blast us down and wreak their slaughters
If we fail it's not we alone who'll die
There'll be no food for our wives and daughters
Feel the shuttle shake and lurch
At last we ground with tears and laughter
Hug our families, then to Church
Then to the feast of welcome after
Kiss your babies, hold your women close
Thank the Tester all are healthy
We've no spare austins and no fancy clothes
But in love and blessings we are wealthy
The Tester keep us in His grace
As we feast with kin and neighbors
'Till we return again to space
And resume the Tester's labors.
