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 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 Noontide’s Glare;
When The Sun’s
Last Rays Are Gleaming,
Bid Them Gather Everywhere.
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.
O Thou, Whom Thy Lord Is Sending,
Gather Now The Sheaves Of Gold;
Heavenward Then At Evening Wending,
Thou Shalt Come With Joy Untold.
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.