OH, whitened fields of golden grain,
O'erspreading every hill and plain,
By ocean shore and northern sea,
By rivers stretching grand and free,
In desert wilds far out of sight,
Where brood the shadows of the night,
Where'er the foot of man hath trod,
Your plumed helmets wave and nod! The Lord wants reapers, ho! away
At golden dawn of early day;
Gird on your gleaming sickles fair,
And to the waiting fields repair,
Ere wintry storms shall o'er them blow
And lay the ready fruitage low,
Ungarnered to his gracious store,
The summer past, the harvest o'er. The Lord wants reapers; lo! he stands
Unlocking gates to all the lands;
From farthest east to sunset sea
He cleaves a pathway broad and free,
And brings the far-off people near,
The story of his love to hear. Some field is waiting for us all;
At home, abroad, where'er the call,
How'er obscure the toil may be,
Give to it will and purpose free.
In God's own wise and righteous time
Thy feet the mountain height shall climb,
Though long amid the shadows deep
'Twas thine to work and wait and weep. The long, bright day will soon be cried,
When, trooping down the mountain side,
God's gleaming angel host shall come
To shout the finished harvest home,
Unless our idle hands shall stay
The hasting of that glorious day,
Whose first long wave of golden light
Is climbing o'er the distant height.
God's patience waits our prescience slow
The meaning of his ways to know. The Lord wants reapers; hear the call—
To old and young, to great and small.
Rise up, with sickles gleaming bright,
Amid the morn's advancing light,
And ere the sunset gild the sea
Thy labors richly crowned shall be. —Sel.