448 - Far and Near the Fields Are Teeming

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Far and near the fields are teeming
with the sheaves of ripened grain;
Far and near their gold is gleaming
O'er the summy slope and plain.

Lord of harvest, send forth reapers!
Hear us Lord,to Thee we cry;
Send them now the sheaves to gather,
Ere the harvest-time pass by.

Send them forth with morn's first beaming,
Send them in the noon-tides's glare;
When the sun's last rays are streaming,
Bid them gather everywhere.

O thou, whom thy Lord is sending,
Gather now the sheaves of gold;
Heavenward then at evening wending
Thou shalt come with joy untold.