Far And Near

Far and near the fields are teeming,
With the sheaves of ripened grain;
Far and near their gold is gleaming,
O’er the sunny slope and plain.

[CHORUS]
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 moon tide’s glare;
When the sun’s last rays are streaming,
Bid them gather ev’ry where.

O thou whom thy Lord is sending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold;
Heav’nward then at evening wending,
Thou shalt come with joy untold.