THE SONG OF THE GOSPEL SICKLE.
By Mattie A. Boyce
"Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth laborers into his harvest." Matt. 9:38. Come away to the fields, for the harvest is waiting;
The songs of the reapers are calling away.
Bright and fair in its beauty the ripe grain is bending;
Wait not for to-morrow, but haste ye to-day. The field is the world, and the grain is the millions
Who tread the broad pathway to death and the grave.
To aid in the work of redemption thy mission,
These perishing souls from destruction to save. The rich fields are white in the sunlight of heaven;
Then say not, "There's naught that our hands find to do."
Hear the voice of the Saviour, in accents of sorrow,
"The harvest is great but the lab'rers are few." Spend not the blest moments in idle inaction.
Golden grains are now wasting—oh! gather them in;
Bear with anthems of joy to the feet of the Master
Precious sheaves thou hast saved from the garner of sin. Then away to the fields, for the harvest is waiting;
The daylight is fading; 'twill quickly be gone.
Man must work till God's angel shall thrust in his sickle,
And the "Lord of the harvest" shall gather us home.