The fields are white un­to the har­vest, Lord,
Their gold­en trea­sures wait on ev­ery side;
But how shall all their price­less wealth be stored?
The reap­ers are so few, the world so wide.
Lord, send the la­bor­ers forth!

The fields are Thine,
With love’s great ran­som bought,
The pre­cious blood of Thy be­lov­èd Son:
’Tis long since His re­deem­ing work was wrought,
Yet scarce the reap­ing seems to be be­gun.
Lord, send the la­bor­ers forth!

To us, Thy people, whom Thou hast re­deemed,
To us belong the sin, the hum­bling shame;
We have not reaped,
We have but slept and dreamed,
Nor called with ho­ly ar­dor on Thy name.
Lord, send the la­bor­ers forth!

Awake Thy Church, ere yet the day de­parts,
For while she sleeps, swift works the reap­er, Death;
O God, for­give, and in­to tor­pid hearts
Send like a migh­ty wind Thy quick­en­ing breath!
Lord, send the la­bor­ers forth!

Come from the South, O wind!
Come from the North,
And from Thy gar­den make the spic­es flow!
Their frag­rance sweet
Throughout the earth shed forth,
Till God’s great gift to men all men shall know.
Lord, send the la­bor­ers forth!

The glo­ry, Fa­ther, shall be Thine; Thy Son
With joy the fruit of all His tra­vail see;
Thy will on earth shall as in Hea­ven be done,
And Hea­ven and earth make one full har­mo­ny.
Lord, send the la­bo­rers forth!