1 Lo! the summer sun is spreading gold upon the grain!
Countless fields are rolling like the billows of the main;
All the air is vibrant with a sharp and earnest call,
Rouse ye, reapers, there is work for all.
Behold! the fields are waving signal calls to thee!
Arise! Arise! A storm is brooding on the sea,
And if you falter or delay,
And precious grain be swept away,
What will the Lord of harvest say?
2 Cries for help are coming from the fields in foreign lands;
Oh, the work that must be done! where are the willing hands?
Halting while the Master calls is little short of crime,
Rouse ye, reapers, this is harvest time. [Refrain]
3 Soon for you the harvest time will pass beyond recall;
Soon a day of reckoning will come to one and all;
Bearing sheaves or empty handed is for you to say,
Rouse ye, reapers, harvest is today. [Refrain]