1 Growing together, wheat and tares,
All clustering fair and green,
Fanned by the gentle summer airs
Beneath one sky serene;
Over them both the sunlight falls,
And over them both the rain,
Till the angels come when the Master calls
To gather the golden grain.
2 Growing together side by side,
And both shall the reapers meet—
The tares aloft in their scornful pride,
And bowing heads of wheat.
Swift and sure o’er the waving plain
The sickle sharp will fly,
And the precious when, the abundant grain,
Be harvested in the sky.
3 But O the tares,—for them the word
Of a terrible doom is cast;
“Bind and burn,” is the Lord’s command,
They shall leave the wheat at last;
Never again the summer rain,
And never the sunshine sweet,
That were lavished freely, all in vain
On the tares among the wheat.
4 Where shall the reapers look for us
When that day of days shall come?
O solemn the thought with grandeur fraught,
Of that wondrous harvest-home!
O Saviour grant when Thine angels come
To reap the fields for Thee,
That we may be found with the golden grain
That garnered in heaven shall be.