Lift up your eyes, look round;

The fields to harvest white,

Are bow'd, and shaking to the ground;

Where soon must perish quite,

The sower's seed, the tiller's toil,

The husbandman's abortive trust,

Whose crops ungather'd load the soil,

Down trodden to the dust:

For wide the fields are spread, and far,

And few, and weak, the labourers are.

Lord of the Harvest! now,

Send faithful labourers forth,

To wield the sickle, guide the plough,

Where east, west, south, and north,

Far as the fields of life are spread,

The scythe of Time, at Death's stern doom,

Is reaping harvests for the dead,

To crowd the garner-tomb:

Lord! Lord! a precious remnant save

From death--from death beyond the grave.