As pil­grims and stran­gers we jour­ney thro’ life,
Thro’ sun­shine and sha­dow, thro’ calm and thro’ strife;
Each day we are scat­ter­ing seed as we go;
Some day ’twill be har­vest—we reap what we sow.

Tho’ wea­ry and worn and alone in your way,
And storm clouds are ga­ther­ing dark in your day,
Weep not, toil­ing one, nei­ther faint as you go;
The har­vest is near­ing—we reap what we sow.

Tho’ life may ap­pear as a cold bar­ren waste,
And comes no re­turn of the bread you have cast,
Continue to do lov­ing deeds as you go;
The har­vest is near­ing—we reap what we sow.

We’ll reap what we sow when the har­vest is come,
Some day we shall gar­ner the deeds we have done;
Then heed not the storm nor the cold winds that blow;
Toil on till the har­vest—we reap what we sow.