Verse 1
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.
Refrain
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.
Verse 2
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.
Verse 3
O thou, whom thy Lord is sending, Gather now the sheaves of gold; Heavenward then at evening wending Thou shalt come with joy untold.