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.

Send them forth with morn's first beaming,
Send them in the noontide's glare;
When the sun's last rays are streming,
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.