1 Lift up your eyes, ye sons of light,
Behold the fields already white!
The glorious harvest now is come;
See ransom'd sinners flocking home.
2 Mov'd by the spirit's softest wind,
Their hearts are all as one inclin'd;
Their former sins and follies mourn;
They bow, and to their God return.
3 Improve the harvest fleeting fast,
Ere yet the shining season past,
When all the work of life shall end,
The last--the long dark night descend.
Source: Hymns, Selected and Original: for public and private worship (1st ed.) #681