O still in accents sweet and strong
Sounds forth the ancient word—
More reapers for white harvest fields,
More laborers for the Lord.

We hear the call; in dreams no more
In selfish ease we lie,
But, girded for our Fa­ther’s work,
Go forth beneath His sky.

Where prophets’ word, and martyrs’ blood,
And prayers of saints were sown,
We, to their labors entering in,
Would reap where they have strown.

O Thou whose call our hearts has stirred!
To do Thy will we come;
Thrust in our sickles at Thy Word,
And bear our harvest home.