O still in ac­cents sweet and strong
Sounds forth the an­cient word—
More reap­ers for white har­vest fields,
More la­bor­ers for the Lord.

We hear the call; in dreams no more
In self­ish ease we lie,
But, gird­ed for our Fa­ther’s work,
Go forth be­neath His sky.

Where pro­phets’ word, and mar­tyrs’ blood,
And pray­ers of saints were sown,
We, to their la­bors en­ter­ing in,
Would reap where they have strown.

O Thou whose call our hearts has stirred!
To do Thy will we come;
Thrust in our sick­les at Thy Word,
And bear our har­vest home.