A Harvest Song

The Corn waves on a thousand hills,
Reflected in the sparkling rills;
The earth has had its meed of rain,
The sun has spread its warmth again.
Put in the sickle, reap the corn;
It is the pleasant harvest morn.

Sing out a song of trust and love,
Sing praises to the God above,-
A new glad song of gratitude;
His work is ever kind and good.
Put in the sickle, reap the corn;
It is the pleasant harvest morn.


But other corn is ripening still
than that which waves on breezy hill;
Another sun shines on today,
And soon the husbandmen will say,
Put in the sickle reap the corn;
'Tis the eternal harvest morn.


And Death shall be the reaper then,
Among the standing fields of men,
And many a one with glad surprise
Be gathered to the smiling skies.
Put in the sickle, reap the corn;
For soon 'twill be the harvest morn.


Oh, to be ready for that day,
With its magnificent array!
Oh, to be fully ripe, that we
Among the garnered grains may be!
Put in the sickle, reap the corn;
It is the solemn harvest morn.

By Marianne Farningham