He that go­eth forth with weep­ing,
Bearing pre­cious seed in love,
Never tir­ing, ne­ver sleep­ing,
Findeth mer­cy from above.

Soft des­cend the dews of Hea­ven,
Bright the rays ce­les­ti­al shine;
Precious fruits will thus be giv­en
Through an in­flu­ence all di­vine.

Sow thy seed; be ne­ver wea­ry;
Let no fears thy soul an­noy;
Be the pros­pect ne’er so drea­ry,
Thou shalt reap the fruits of joy.

Lo! the scene of ver­dure bright­en­ing,
See the ris­ing grain ap­pear:
Look again; the fields are whit­en­ing,
For the har­vest time is near.