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.