Far and near the fields are teeming
With the sheaves of ripened grain;
Far and near their gold is gleaming
O’er the sunny slope and plain.
Lord of harvest, send forth reapers!
Hear us Lord, 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 noon-tides’s glare;
When the sun’s last rays are streaming,
Bid them gather everywhere.
O thou, whom thy Lord is sending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold;
Heavenward then at evening wending
Thou shalt come with joy untold.