Hymn of the Reapers

Our Father, to fields that are white,
Rejoicing, the sickle we bear,
In praises our voices unite
To thee, who hast made them thy care.

The seed, that was dropped in the soil,
We left, with a holy belief
In One, who, beholding the toil,
Would crown it at length with the sheaf.

And ever our faith shall be firm
In thee, who hast nourished the root;
Whose finger has led up the germ,
And finished the blade and the fruit!

The heads, that are heavy with grain,
Are bowing and asking to fall;
Thy hand is on mountain and plain,
Thou Maker and Giver of all!

Thy blessings shine bright from the hills,
The valleys thy goodness repeat;
And, Lord, 't is thy bounty that fills
The arms of the reaper with wheat!

Oh! when with the sickle in hand,
The angel thy mandate receives,
To come to the field with his band
To bind up, and bear off thy sheaves, —

May we be as free from the blight,
As ripe to be taken away,
As full in the ear, to thy sight,
As that which we gather to-day!

Our Father, the heart and the voice
Flow out our fresh off'rings to yield.
The Reapers! the Reapers rejoice,
And send up their song from the field!