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.
2. 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.
3. Hasten now, the grain is bending, Gather now the sheaves of gold ; Homeward then at evening wending, Thou shalt come with joy untold.