The world’s glorious harvest is fast drawing on,
The Master is calling his reapers to come;
The grain bright and golden, in fields far and near,
Is ripe for the garner when he shall appear.
The Master is calling his reapers to come;
The grain bright and golden, in fields far and near,
Is ripe for the garner when he shall appear.
[CHORUS]
Hasten on glad day, Bear the sheaves. Away;
(Hasten on, angel reapers, come, glad day,
Bear the sheaves to the garner, far away;)
Hasten on, glad day, Bear us .. home.
(Hasten on, angel reapers, come, glad day,
Bring the “harvest home.”
That morn everlasting, that day free from tears,
Is swiftly approaching as on roll the years;
The wheat, rudely scattered by sin’s cruel blast,
Then hasten to gather e’er autumn be past.
O sweet is the labor that floweth from love,
A stream never failing, whose Fount is above;
“Tis love that invites us, ‘tis love points the field,
‘Tis love wields the sickle, and wondrous the yield.