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THE HARVEST-FIELDS ARE WHITE

“Missionary Gems” — A collection of short poems
Compiled from various sources — Gospel Trumpet Company

So many idle, folded hands,
And the harvest-fields are white;
Low droop the heavy heads of wheat
That wait the reaper’s weary feet,
The sickle in his willing hands.
For the “harvest-fields are white.”

So many here that sit at ease
While beneath yon darker skies
The wretchedness and misery
Even angels well might see.
How can we dare to sit at ease
Beneath these golden skies?

So fleet, so few the moments be
For binding up the sheaves!
The Master calls; do not delay,
But haste some fruit to reap today;
For soon our only joy shall be
In bringing home the sheaves.

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