Garnered Sheaves

At the feet of the bless­èd Mas­ter

We would lay our gar­nered sheaves;

When we come

and all emp­ty hand­ed

Surely sore the Mas­ter grieves!

Garnered sheaves from the fields

So white to har­vest!

Garnered sheaves rich­ly yields

Life’s gold­en har­vest!

At the feet of the bless­èd Mas­ter

We would lay our gar­nered sheaves.

While the fields then are white with har­vest

And the la­bor­ers are few

Let us strive well to fill the gar­ner

And be reap­ers staunch and true.

O the joy of suc­cess­ful labor!

O the joy of work well done!

O the joy of the Mas­ter’s prais­es

To the soul whose crown is won!