1. Far and near the fields are teeming
    with the sheaves of ripened grain;
    Far and near their gold is gleaming
    O’er the summy 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.

  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.
  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.