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,
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.
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.
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