157 Harvest Time.
He that goeth forth with weeping,
Bearing precious seed in love;
Never tiring, never sleeping,
Findeth mercy from above.
CHORUS
Lo, the scene of verdure brightning!
See the rising grain appear;
Look! The waving fields are whitning,
For the harvest time is near.
Soft descend the dews of heaven,
Bright the rays celestial shine;
Precious fruits will thus be given,
Through and influence all divine.
Sow thy seed, be never weary,
Let no fears thy soul annoy;
Be the prospect neer so dreary,
Thou shalt reap the fruits of day.
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