157. Harvest Time

He that goeth forth with weeping,
Bearing precious seed in love;
Never tiring, never sleeping,
Findeth mercy from above.

CHORUS
Lo, the scene of verdure bright’ning!
See the rising grain appear;
Look! The waving fields are whit’ning,
For the harvest time is near.

Soft descend the dews of heaven,
Bright the rays celestial shine;
Precious fruits will thus be given,
Through and influence all divine.

Sow thy seed, be never weary,
Let no fears thy soul annoy;
Be the prospect ne’er so dreary,
Thou shalt reap the fruits of day.