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.
