Far And Near The Fields Are Teeming
With The Waves Of Ripened Grain ;
Far And Near Their Gold Is Gleaming
O’er The Sunny Slope And Plain.

Lord, We Pray Thee, Send Forth Reapers !
Hear Us, While To Thee We Cry ;
Send Them Now The Sheaves To Gather,
Ere The Harvest-Time Pass By.

Send Them Forth With Morn’s First Beaming,
Send Them In The Noontide’s Glare ;
When The Sun’s Last Rays Are Gleaming.
Bid Them Gather Everywhere.

Hasten Now, The Grain Is Bending,
Gather Now The Sheaves Of Gold ;
Homeward Then At Evening Wending,
Thou Shalt Come With Joy Untold.