At the feet of the bless­èd Mas­ter
We would lay our gar­nered sheaves;
When we come, and all emp­ty hand­ed,
Surely sore the Mas­ter grieves!

Refrain

Garnered sheaves from the fields
So white to har­vest!
Garnered sheaves rich­ly yields
Life’s gold­en har­vest!
At the feet of the bless­èd Mas­ter
We would lay our gar­nered sheaves.

While the fields then are white with har­vest,
And the la­bor­ers are few,
Let us strive well to fill the gar­ner,
And be reap­ers staunch and true.

Refrain

O the joy of suc­cess­ful labor!
O the joy of work well done!
O the joy of the Mas­ter’s prais­es
To the soul whose crown is won!

Refrain