Lo The Summer Sun Is Spreading

Lo! the summer sun is spreading gold upon the grain!
Countless fields are rolling like the billows of the main;
All the air is vibrant with a sharp and earnest call,
Rouse ye, reapers, there is work for all.

Behold! the fields are waving signal calls to thee!
Arise! Arise! A storm is brooding on the sea,
And if you falter or delay,
And precious grain be swept away,
What will the Lord of harvest say?

Cries for help are coming from the fields in foreign lands;
Oh, the work that must be done! where are the willing hands?
Halting while the Master calls is little short of crime,
Rouse ye, reapers, this is harvest time. [Refrain]

Soon for you the harvest time will pass beyond recall;
Soon a day of reckoning will come to one and all;
Bearing sheaves or empty handed is for you to say,
Rouse ye, reapers, harvest is today. [Refrain]