p. 1 | The Fields are White by Ernest G. Wesley

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 3, 1910

The Fields are White

By Ernest G. Wesley

Lift up your eyes — behold the task to which The Master calls. Earth's fields the reapers wait, And lo! much golden grain is bending now,— So low that, fallen, soiled, and stained it lies Because no hand has gleaned! The harvests ripe Invite thy love, thy prayer, thy toil. Before Thine eye and near thy hand the burdened plains Are spread. Thy zeal for souls, thine earnest zeal, He asks, who loved and lived and bled and died Salvation to secure for thee and thine. . . .

Thy hand, thy heart, thy brain, thy wealth, he needs To-day! Thy hand to reap, thy heart to love, Thy brain to plan, thy wealth to cleave the way Through forests dark and jungles deep, and o’er “His reapers,” on to fields as yet unreaped— Where harvests rich lie waiting for their toil.

The day is now,— the day in which for Christ All labor must be done. Too soon the night Comes on, when toil must cease, and what is then Ungleaned fore’er must lie, ungleaned and lost!

— Ernest G. Wesley, in Gospel in All Lands.