Look up! be­hold, the fields are white,
The har­vest time is near;
The sum­mons of the Mas­ter falls
Upon the reap­er’s ear:
Go forth into the gold­en grain
And bind the pre­cious sheaves,
And gar­ner for the Lord of Hosts
The har­vest which He gives.

Look up! be­hold, the fields are white,
The la­bor­ers are few,
The ga­ther­ing of the har­vest must
By grace de­pend on you:
Go forth through­out the bu­sy world,
The world of want and sin,
And ga­ther for the Lord of Hosts
Its dy­ing mill­ions in.

Look up! be­hold, the fields are white,
The Mas­ter soon will come,
And car­ry with re­joic­ing heart
His ga­thered tro­phies home;
And can you stand with emp­ty arms,
While glad­ly He re­ceives
From oth­ers in the har­vest field
A load of pre­cious sheaves?