Look Up! Behold, the Fields Are White

Look up! be­hold

the fields are white

The har­vest time is near;

The sum­mons of the Mas­ter falls

Upon the reap­er’s ear:

Go forth into the gold­en grain

And bind the pre­cious sheaves

And gar­ner for the Lord of Hosts

The har­vest which He gives.

Look up! be­hold

the fields are white

The la­bor­ers are few

The ga­ther­ing of the har­vest must

By grace de­pend on you:

Go forth through­out the bu­sy world

The world of want and sin

And ga­ther for the Lord of Hosts

Its dy­ing mill­ions in.

Look up! be­hold

the fields are white

The Mas­ter soon will come

And car­ry with re­joic­ing heart

His ga­thered tro­phies home;

And can you stand with emp­ty arms

While glad­ly He re­ceives

From oth­ers in the har­vest field

A load of pre­cious sheaves?