First Line: Far and near the fields are teeming,

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.