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.
Send them forth with morn’s first beaming,
Send them in the noontide’s glare;
When the sun’s last rays are streaming,
Bid them gather everywhere.
O thou, whom thy Lord is sending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold
Heavenward then at evening wending
Thou shalt come with joy untold.