A band of faith­ful reap­ers we,
Who gath­er for eter­ni­ty,
The gold­en sheaves of rip­ened grain
From ev­ery val­ley, hill and plain
Our song is one the reap­ers sing,
In hon­or of their Lord and king—
The Mas­ter of the har­vest wide,
Who for a world of sin­ners died.

Refrain

To the har­vest field away,
For the Mas­ter call­eth;
There is work for all to­day,
Ere the dark­ness fall­eth.
Swiftly do the mo­ments fly,
Harvest days are go­ing by,
Going, go­ing, go­ing, go­ing by.

We are a faith­ful glean­ing band,
And la­bor at our Lord’s com­mand,
Unyielding, loy­al, tried and true,
For lo! the reap­ers are but few;
Behold the wav­ing har­vest field,
Abundant with a gold­en yield;
And hear the Lord of har­vest say
To all: Go reap for Me tod­ay.

Refrain

The gold­en hours like mo­ments fly,
And har­vest days are pass­ing by;
Then take thy rus­ty sic­kle down,
And la­bor for a fade­less crown;
Why will you id­ly stand and wait?
Behold, the hour is grow­ing late!
Can you to judg­ment bring but leaves,
While here are wait­ing gold­en sheaves?

Refrain