J. O. Thompson

FAR and near the fields are teeming

With the waves of ripened grain;

Far and near their gold is gleaming

O’er the sunny slope and plain.

Lord of harvest, send forth reapers!

Hear us, Lord, to Thee we cry;

Send them now the sheaves to gather,

Ere the harvest time pass by.


Send them forth with morn’s first beaming,

Send them in the noontide’s glare;

When the sun’s last rays are gleaming,

Bid them gather everywhere.


O thou, whom the Lord is sending,

Gather now the sheaves of gold;

Heavenward, then at evening wending,

Thou shalt come with joy untold.


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