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.
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
Go reap for Me today.
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?