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1 Oh, brother the harvest is ready,
The grain standeth white in the field,
Go work while the sun shineth o’er us,
Abundant and glorious the yield.
The night is not long in its coming,
The rain in its season will fall;
The grain that is left ungathered,
Will be lost beyond recall.
2 Oh, thrust in thy sickle my brother,
The days pass so swiftly away;
The grain is all ripe for the harvest,
The loss will be great in delay. [Refrain]
3 The Lord of the harvest is waiting,
The sheaves of the bright golden grain;
He calls to the lab’rers to hasten,
Ere falleth the pitiless rain. [Refrain]
4 Oh, sweet will thy joy be, my brother,
When coming at close of the day,
To bring all your sheaves to the Master,
And hear the “well done” He will say. [Refrain]Source: Calvary's Praises #26