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.
2
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.
3
O thou, whom the Lord is sending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold;
Heavenward, then at evening wending,
Thou shalt come with joy untold.