p. 658 | HARVEST by Ruth Lees Olson

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Oct 24, 1916

FromSigns of the Times, October 24, 1916

HARVEST

By Ruth Lees Olson

BY RUTH LEES OLSON

SAY not ye, "Yet four months, and then the harvest cometh, And we with sharpened sickle to the fields will go, To gather in the sheaves of ripened grain low bending Beneath the burning kisses of the sun's bright glow." Lift up thine eyes to Africa's great sandy desert, The land where once the marvelous power of God was shown, Where thousands of the souls His love and power created, Now grope in fear and dread through sin's dark hours, alone. Look up and listen to the wail of China's millions Pleading for help to insensate gods of wood and stone, While lives of myriad helpless babes cry out for succor From crimson river's moan. To the sad eyes of hosts of India's childhood widows, To Russian peasant's calloused hands and pain dulled heart. To nations that, bound in the chains of heathen darkness, Beholding not the gospel light, still stand apart, Look up! Behold, the fields are ripe unto the harvest. Already doth the sickle wait thy listless hand. The Master calls for reapers in His needy grainfields; And art thou deaf to His command? Go forth, go forth, with eager footsteps hastening, And work with heart and hand while it is day, Thy place to fill. The sheaves thy hands may garner, Lest others bear the golden grain away.