FROM the far-off fields of earthly toil
A mighty host they come,
And the sounds of music are on the ear,
‘Tis the song of the Harvest Home.
The weariness, the weeping,
The darkness have all passed by,
And a glorious sun has risen,
The sun of eternity.
We knew those faces in days of yore,
When the dust was on their brow,
And the scalding tear upon their cheek—
Let us look at the laborers now!
We think of the lifelong sorrow,
And the wilderness days of care;
We try to trace the tear-drops,
But no scars of grief are there.
They followed their Saviour’s footprints here,
They walk with Him above;
All the faith and hope of journeying years
Shine forth in their looks of love.
The long day’s work is over,
The sure reward comes now;
For they gaze upon their Master,
And His Name is on their brow.
They’ve seen the safely garnered sheaves,
And the song was passing sweet
Which welcomed the last incoming one
Laid down at their Saviour’s feet.
O well does His heart remember,
As those notes of praise sweep by,
The yearning, plaintive music,
Of earth’s sadder minstrelsy.
And well does He know each chequered tale,
As He looks on the joyous band;
All the lights and shadows that crossed their path,
In the distant pilgrim land.
The heart’s unspoken anguish,
The bitter sighs and tears,
The long, long hours of watching,
The changeful hopes and fears.
Some with eager step, went boldly forth,
Broadcasting o’er the land;
Some watered the scarcely budding blade
With a tender, gentle hand.
There are some whose lives were blighted
With the withering touch of woe,
Their days were sad and weary,
And they never went forth to sow.
But there rose from each lowly couch of pain,
The fervent pleading prayer;
They look on many a radiant brow,
And they read the answer there.
Yes, sowers and reapers are meeting,
A rejoicing host they come;
Will your voice join in the chorus,
Of the heavenly Harvest Home?
Anon.