The Corn Is Ripe For Reaping

The corn is ripe for reaping,
Fields glow with ruddy grain,
And we must now be keeping
Our harvest feast again;
With voice of joy and singing,
Our praise to God shall rise,
Who, whilst the seed was springing,
Rain’d blessings from the skies.

Thine, Father, is the river
That maketh rich and earth;
Through Thee, O gracious Giver,
The buried seed had birth:
Thou on the furrows raining,
Didst make them soft with show’rs;
The thirsty crops maintaining
Through silent summer hours.

The year, by Thee anointed,
Is now with goodness crowned,
Robed in the robes appointed,
With gladness girded round.
We thank Thee for the blessing
Which meets us on our way,
And come, Thy love confessing,
With happy heart to-day.

But whilst our lips are praising,
Our lives to Thee belong;
With them we would be raising
A nobler, sweeter song;
One that may sound for ever,
Whilst earth’s great Harvest speeds,
A song of high endeavour
Rung out in earnest deeds