Away to the Fields

The fields are all white

but the la­b’rers are few

And this is the great har­vest day;

My bro­ther

the Mas­ter is call­ing for you

So let us be up and away.

Away to the field! Away to the field!

Stand idle no long­er

I pray;

Away to the field! Away to the field!

The Mas­ter needs reap­ers to­day.

The sheaves are all His

and not one should be lost;

He paid a price dear­er than gold;

Then en­ter the har­vest

and count not the cost

But ga­ther them in­to the fold.

At life’s ev­en­ing fall

when the sha­dows grow long

Our sheav­es to the gar­ner we’ll bring;

And sing with the an­gels re­demp­tion’s sweet song

Till all Heav’n with mu­sic shall ring.