The Fields Are White (Scotland)

The fields are white un­to the har­vest

Lord

Their gold­en trea­sures wait on ev­ery side;

But how shall all their price­less wealth be stored?

The reap­ers are so few

the world so wide.

Lord

send the la­bor­ers forth!

The fields are Thine

With love’s great ran­som bought

The pre­cious blood of Thy be­lov­èd Son:

’Tis long since His re­deem­ing work was wrought

Yet scarce the reap­ing seems to be be­gun.

Lord

send the la­bor­ers forth!

To us

Thy people

whom Thou hast re­deemed

To us belong the sin

the hum­bling shame;

We have not reaped

We have but slept and dreamed

Nor called with ho­ly ar­dor on Thy name.

Lord

send the la­bor­ers forth!

Awake Thy Church

ere yet the day de­parts

For while she sleeps

swift works the reap­er

Death;

O God

for­give

and in­to tor­pid hearts

Send like a migh­ty wind Thy quick­en­ing breath!

Lord

send the la­bor­ers forth!

Come from the South

O wind!

Come from the North

And from Thy gar­den make the spic­es flow!

Their frag­rance sweet

Throughout the earth shed forth

Till God’s great gift to men all men shall know.

Lord

send the la­bor­ers forth!

The glo­ry

Fa­ther

shall be Thine; Thy Son

With joy the fruit of all His tra­vail see;

Thy will on earth shall as in Heav­en be done

And Heav­en and earth make one full har­mo­ny.

Lord

send the la­bo­rers forth!