The Fields Are White (Sheeleigh)

Lift up your eyes up­on the land

For white the fields ap­pear;

The har­vest of the world’s at hand

The reap­ing time is here.

Stay not to wait re­peat­ed call;

The King’s work need­eth haste;

Leave not the grain un­reaped to fall

The price­less crop to waste.

Ye men and maid­ens of the Lord

Be not the call de­layed;

Rise to the work with full ac­cord

Thrust in the sic­kle blade.

Wait not un­til the wane of day;

Your loins now quick­ly gird;

E’en ere the dew has dried away

Answer the Mas­ter’s word.

How soon will pass the morn­ing prime

Think not the hours will stay;

Soon will it be your ev­en­time

How soon will close your day.