The Reapers, Where Are They?
By L. D. Santee
I list for the sound of the reapers as they gather the golden grain;
I look on the world's great harvest, and my heart is filled with pain:
There's many a sheaf to gather before the twilight gray,
The fields are ripe for the harvest; but the reapers, where are they? Yearnings so sad and painful trouble my heart to-day;
Many a sheaf that might be saved the wind is wasting away;
Many a soul to Christ would come, while it is “called to-day;”
The fields are ripe for the harvest; but the reapers, where are they? The harvest work is heavy, the reapers are pale and wan;
But the time of resting soon will come, when the Master will say, “Well done.”
Loving hands and earnest hearts the Master needs to-day:
The fields are ripe for the harvest; but the reapers, where are they? There is pressing need of reapers on the world's great harvest plain,
Many are they in the shades of death who stretch their hands in vain:
Many are they in darkness who wait and watch and pray;
The fields are ripe for the harvest; but the reapers, where are they? “Go work to-day in my vineyard,” and He points to the golden grain:
Oh! may the zeal He has wakened never slumber again!
Even now the day is waning, now is the setting sun,
The sickles will rest from labor, and the reapers' work be done. L. D. SANTEE.