O where are the reapers that garner in
The
sheaves of the good from the fields of sin?
With
sickles of truth must the work be done,
And
no one may rest till the “harvest home.”
Refrain
2
The
fields all are ripening, and far and wide
The
world now is waiting the harvest tide:
But
reapers are few, and the work is great,
And
much will be losst should the harvest wait.
3
So
come with your sickles, ye sons of men,
And
gather together the golden gain;
Toil
on till the Lord of the harvest come,
Then
share ye His joy in the “harvest home.”