Hymn/Song Information

The fields are white unto the harvest

The fields are white unto the harvest, Lord,
Their golden treasures wait on every side;
But how shall all their priceless wealth be stored?
The reapers are so few, the world so wide.
Lord, send the laborers forth!

The fields are Thine, with love’s great ransom bought,
The precious blood of Thy belovèd Son:
’Tis long since His redeeming work was wrought,
Yet scarce the reaping seems to be begun.
Lord, send the laborers forth!

To us, Thy people, whom Thou hast redeemed,
To us belong the sin, the humbling shame;
We have not reaped, we have but slept and dreamed,
Nor called with holy ardor on Thy Name.
Lord, send the laborers forth!

Awake Thy Church, ere yet the day departs,
For while she sleeps, swift works the reaper, Death;
O God, forgive, and into torpid hearts
Send like a mighty wind Thy quickening breath!
Lord, send the laborers forth!

Come from the South, O Wind! come from the North,
And from Thy garden make the spices flow!
Their fragrance sweet throughout the earth shed forth,
Till God’s great gift to men all men shall know.
Lord, send the laborers forth!

The glory, Father, shall be Thine; Thy Son
With joy the fruit of all His travail see;
Thy will on earth shall as in Heaven be done,
And Heaven and earth make one full harmony.
Lord, send the laborers forth!